Congenital Magnetism
by Ascyltus
Summary: Harry displays his effortless knack for landing himself in problematic situations while a highly critical world observes. Luckily, Harry begins to develop some unusual abilities by virtue of being one-quarter Veela. Only Draco Malfoy seems to be immune.
1. Voldemort's Curse

**Title: **Congenital Magnetism  
**Author: **Ascyltus  
**Completed: **Yes  
**Summary: **At the end of his fifth year, Harry displays his effortless knack for landing himself in problematic situations. Luckily, Harry begins to develop some unusual abilities that he has inherited by virtue of being one-quarter Veela. Only Draco Malfoy seems to be immune to Harry's newly found powers.  
**Disclaimer: **This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Chapter 1: Voldemort's Curse**

At the end of Harry Potter's fifth year at Hogwarts, on a cloudless day in June, the wizarding world found it necessary to revise their saintly image of Harry. He would always prove himself to be saintly insofar as he was good-hearted, but events forced everyone to see Harry as he was, not as they imagined him. For a long time to come, Harry's thoughts would return to this splendid day in June and the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch, for here had been his transgression against conventional mores; here, his lurid scene.

The first week of June, exam week, had arrived. It was close to sunrise, and Harry was still slumbering away. An extra hour or so of sleep would be grand, considering how grueling exam week could be, but someone rudely dragged him out of sleep. Ron was shaking Harry until he finally had him awake.

"Harry, get your Quidditch uniform on. I was just down by the pitch, and Roger Davies and a few of the others on the Ravenclaw team are keen for a bit of practice."

Harry smiled at Ron's enthusiasm. "What time is it? Isn't it a little early?"

Ron was laughing now. "All right, so it's five o'clock, but we won't have many more chances to play before summer vac begins. Come on, Harry." Ron was pushing Harry out of bed now. "It'll be fun."

Fun? Afterwards, when Harry reviewed the events of that day in June, he would come to consider Ron's prediction ironic at best. How much fun could Harry have in watching his honored place in the wizarding world shaken by scandal? Hogwarts, after all, had its social conventions just the same as the Muggle world. Harry was expected to start dating girls, although his fiasco with Cho Chang during the past year was hardly an auspicious beginning. But this might have been only an initial bump in the road were it not for the time bomb of erotic awareness that lay at the very heart of Harry's nature. The sensuality that had been sneaking up on Harry unawares had begun to make itself known in spades.

All year long, Harry had stolen glances at Kyle Urquhart, a tall sixth-year Slytherin boy who was all muscles and confident grins. Harry knew the Slytherin Quidditch team was trying to recruit Urquhart, perhaps even ask him to captain their team next year, and Harry let his eyes linger over those broad shoulders. Appallingly, Harry sometimes even found himself checking out his longtime rival—and all-around evil git—Draco Malfoy. Ever since Voldemort's return at the end of his fourth year at Hogwarts, Harry had developed the habit of obsessively tracking Draco's movements, mindful of the possibility that Draco or his father, Lucius, was becoming involved in Death Eater activity. Harry couldn't help but note that Draco had himself developed an iron-hard athletic body, and this presented the possibility of extremely awkward situations.

Then Harry's disquieting misadventure exploded in front of the whole world. He might have lost the sympathy of many had it not been for a secret advantage his mother's family had bequeathed to Harry, something that would become manifest after his sixteenth birthday. This ancestral characteristic, passed down to Harry from the Evans family bloodline, would offer testament to the wizarding world that we are all of us—even the most straight-laced among us—subject to the weaknesses of the flesh to one extent or another. Regarding the male students at Hogwarts, the power of Harry's inherited brilliance would make itself known in a rather straightforward fashion. The effect of Harry's inborn talents on the female students would be best summed up by Hermione Granger's candid assessment: "Harry, those goddamn little colorful glitter things keep shooting off your body, and it's driving me nutters."

And so to Harry's fledgling voyage into the carnal unknown. The sun had not yet broken the horizon, and Harry was hurriedly awakened by his best mate, Ron, for one last Quidditch practice before they left Hogwarts for summer vac. The events of that day unfolded with the inevitability of a divinely preordained plan; Harry would later conclude that the gods had a perverse sense of humor.

"So we're going to have a go with Davies and some of the Ravenclaw players," Ron was saying. "It'll just be some flying practice, and maybe we'll try to score a few goals. Then we can come back for breakfast. I think the Ravenclaw players are going to stay on the pitch after that because Davies said they want to have a practice with some of the Slytherin players after we leave." A look of distaste crossed Ron's face. "We don't need to stick around to see that lot."

The feel of the wind beating against his face had Harry fully awake the instant he was up in the air, but beyond that, he had a strange premonition of adventure. Perhaps half an hour passed, and Roger Davies signaled for the practice to stop. Everyone landed back on the ground.

"A few of the Slytherin players are supposed to show up any time now to have a go with my players," Davies said to Harry and Ron, "but you're welcome to stay and watch."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Malfoy will be with them, no doubt."

"Actually, no. Malfoy wanted to sleep in. Just a couple of their Chasers are showing up. Oh, and Kyle Urquhart. They finally managed to recruit him for the Slytherin team. They've been trying to talk him into it all year, and he's agreed to start in September. Of course, Montague won't be here. He's still laid up in the hospital wing."

"Urquhart?" Harry asked, his curiosity getting the better of him. "I've heard a few people say that he might be Slytherin captain next year. All, right. Maybe I'll stay, just to see what kind of player I'll be up against."

Ron shrugged. "I'll pass. See you at breakfast then." Harry watched as Ron made his way back to the castle.

Harry's thoughts turned back to Kyle Urquhart. He was a year older than Harry and would be starting his seventh year in September. An image of the boy appeared, though he hardly seemed like a boy anymore. He was tall, considerably taller than Harry, with brown hair, dark eyes, very broad shoulders and muscles big enough to strain the cloth of his Quidditch uniform. During the past year, Harry had often watched him out of the corner of his eye, taking care that Urquhart didn't notice. Some dawning carnal awareness had focused Harry's vision on the student that the Slytherin Quidditch team had been trying to recruit. As Harry formed a picture in his mind, he saw Urquhart with his sleeves rolled up, revealing hairy forearms. Harry had wondered if Urquhart had corresponding chest hair, and sure enough, a patch of hair poked out just above the top button of his shirt.

Harry was lost in his thoughts when he felt two big hands fall down heavily on his shoulders and heard someone who simply _had_ to be reading his thoughts growl, "So. Little Harry wants to watch." Harry fairly jumped out of his skin as he turned around to see Kyle Urquhart with an irreverent smile on his face.

Harry's attempts to compose himself were only partially successful, and he stumbled over a reply. "Yeah, well… I'm just interested in watching different Quidditch strategies… I mean, er, techniques."

Urquhart had a low, wicked laugh that bespoke someone who considered nothing sacred. "From what I could tell, over the past year you've been interested in watching _me."_

But Harry had thought Urquhart didn't know that. Shit. Had he really seen Harry watching him? Urquhart had been dating some pretty Ravenclaw girl with red hair all year long, right? So even if he saw Harry steal a glance, why wouldn't he just ignore it? But Urquhart hadn't ignored it.

"Stick around until after we're done practicing, and you tell me what you think," Urquhart said, smiling. He gave Harry a brutal slap on the back that propelled the smaller boy forward a foot. Urquhart winked at Harry, still smiling, and then mounted his broom and flew off to begin practice with Davies and the other Ravenclaw and Slytherin players.

From what Harry saw, Urquhart would be a formidable opponent in any game, although at least he played a different position than Harry. Urquhart would be a Chaser, not a Seeker, during the coming season, so Harry only had to worry about beating Draco to the Snitch. Harry watched as the practice ended and the players headed back to the castle.

Before Harry could join them, Urquhart stopped him. "So what did you think?"

"We could talk on the way back, couldn't we?" Harry suggested.

"No, I want your honest opinion, and I don't want the others around to hear. Let them go without us," Urquhart said, pointing to Roger Davies and the other players, who were walking back toward the castle. "Come on with me, back to the locker room. We've got the place to ourselves."

Harry allowed himself to be led back to the locker room and, once there, Urquhart grabbed him by the shoulders and shoved him up against the wall. Incongruously, Urquhart had a gentle, delighted smile on his face.

"Come on, Harry. I've seen you watching me this year when you thought I wasn't noticing."

Harry was unable to do much else other than gaze up at Urquhart and offer an honest reply. "Maybe a couple times, I guess," Harry said.

Then Urquhart had one hand under Harry's shirt, twisting his nipple, and another hand squeezing Harry's bum, and something that had been percolating in Harry's brain over the last year kicked in.

Meanwhile, Roger Davies and the other players had been making their leisurely way back to the castle when Davies came to an abrupt stop. "Wait. We only have the uniforms we were using today."

One of the other players looked at Davies and asked, "So what?"

"I forgot to get next year's uniforms. They're still in a package in the locker room. We have to at least bring them back to the castle and lock them up in a safe place. We can't just leave them in the locker room all summer long."

"How about the uniforms for Slytherin? Are they back there too?" one of the Slytherin players asked.

"Yeah, the uniforms for Ravenclaw and Slytherin," Davies said. "I was responsible for getting the uniforms for Ravenclaw. Urquhart is responsible for getting the uniforms for Slytherin since he's going to captain the team next year, but he probably doesn't even know that. The Gryffindor and Hufflepuff teams already locked up their uniforms in their common rooms last week. I've got to go back."

Another Ravenclaw player said, "We don't have anything else to do right now. We'll go back with you."

So the group of players turned around and walked back toward the pitch. Approaching the locker room, the first thing Davies and the others heard was Harry's vocal moaning. Then the moaning stopped short. What came next from Harry was a startled cry.

"What was that? !"

Now they heard Urquhart's low, menacing laugh as he asked, "What was what?"

"You changed the angle. Do that again." After a few seconds pause, all and sundry were treated to the wild, ecstatic cries of pleasure that now issued forth from Harry.

"Hey, Harry. I take it this angle really does it for you, eh?" Urquhart's voice was strained grunting at this point.

The other players, who were now just outside the locker room, looked at each other in astonishment while Davies silently mouthed the words "what the fuck?" Drawn by an irresistible mix of curiosity and growing wonder, the group of Quidditch players crept around the barrier that separated them from the main area of the locker room to be greeted by the sight of Urquhart shagging Harry into next week. The last thing they heard was Harry, overcome by rapture, moaning Urquhart's given name. This was shortly before Harry Potter and Kyle Urquhart realized that they had company.

* º * º *

When Harry walked into the Great Hall for dinner, he trailed behind a group of students, hoping to use them for cover, while he sneaked a furtive glance at the Ravenclaw and Slytherin tables. No one had seen him yet. He eased himself into his own seat at the Gryffindor table, his body tense as the spring on a mousetrap. From the Gryffindor table, he kept a discreet but steady eye on the Ravenclaw and Slytherin tables. He could detect nothing unusual in the demeanor of the female students; none of them showed any unusual compulsion to glance at the Gryffindor table. But Roger Davies and a few of the other boys on the Ravenclaw and Slytherin Quidditch teams slid their eyes in Harry's direction through the entire dinner, with knowing grins plastered all over their faces. A sense of inescapable doom descended upon Harry.

* º * º *

That evening, Harry pushed all thoughts of his unexpectedly public rendezvous with Urquhart out of his mind and focused on getting to sleep early in preparation for yet more exams the following day. There were plenty of other students who outshone him academically, most notably his friend, Hermione, and his perennial thorn-in-the-side, Draco Malfoy, but maybe if he could get a good sound sleep…

But a good night's rest was not in the cards. Harry lay in his bed in Gryffindor tower, the sheets damp with sweat. "The Dream" was back again, courtesy of a certain Dark Lord. The same frigging recurring dream that kept coming back and back, and just would not quit. The dream had plagued Harry off and on from his first year at Hogwarts, but always bedeviled him with particular frequency and intensity during the first week of June.

It was only too obvious why Voldemort would choose this time of year to make Harry miserable. The first week of June was when Hogwarts students were cramming for exam week. It made perfect sense. Harry simply _knew_ the evil bastard was making his life—and his sleep schedule—as difficult as possible just when students needed to be immersed in preparation for exams. Voldemort was so predictably vile. But this time, the recurring dream had a horrendous new twist: Aunt Petunia and cousin Dudley made their debut. And so the dream began as it always did…

Harry is in a vast ballroom with marble floors; Doric columns and richly ornamented arches grace the periphery of the huge room. Against one wall is a jukebox with multi-colored lights flashing, but no music playing yet. And there stands Voldemort with his wand pointed at Harry, ready to hurl some sadistic spell at him, no doubt.

Voldemort sneers at Harry and begins to taunt him. "Think I won't throw a Cruciatus Curse at you just for fun? Think again."

Voldemort keeps his wand trained on Harry, and then a serpentine shape covered with pink feathers strikes the Dark Lord. Voldemort falls to the ground cursing and muttering.

"How can a feather boa have that much force?" Voldemort cries in pain. "It feels like there's a heavy metal chain inside."

Aunt Petunia, she of the pink feather boa, strides onto the middle of the dance floor, and her physical appearance is shocking. She looks as though she's spent the last two years at a beauty spa. Her body is sheathed in a tight gown that reveals a perfectly toned body, and her face is firm and unlined. Aunt Petunia is in her late 30s, but she looks like a movie star in her prime.

The last time Harry saw Aunt Petunia was during Christmas hols, and she _did_ look like she was embarking on some sort of beauty/exercise routine.

Now, Voldemort hoists himself back on his feet. "Saucy wench! This is my show! You dare to upstage the Dark Lord?"

Aunt Petunia whacks him with her chain-reinforced feather boa, and it sends Voldemort flying toward the wall and crashing unceremoniously into the jukebox. A host of Death Eaters dressed in a very festive manner now enters the ballroom. All of them, particularly the men, are utterly captivated by Aunt Petunia.

"My fans!" she exclaims.

Some of the men in the throng of Death Eaters shout inane compliments like "Goddess!" or "She is the very image of Venus!" Aunt Petunia proceeds to sign autographs, and then sweeps out of the ballroom as many among the Death Eaters pull out cameras and take photographs.

Voldemort, pulling himself together, reclaims the center of the ballroom and is about to address his Death Eater minions when Dudley Dursley bounds into the ballroom and gives Voldemort a swift kick in the stomach, sending him crashing into the jukebox for a second time.

Harry is flabbergasted at this point. Fat, sloppy Dudley is neither fat nor sloppy. He has the body of a Greek god. He's almost 16 years old, the same age as Harry, but he's absolutely buff—muscles and then some. Harry is thinking back to Christmas hols, the last time he saw Dudley. Well, Dudley might have been trying to lose a _little_ weight, but this was crazy. If it were possible to find any escape from this dream, Harry would have, but no such luck.

The Death Eaters now begin to applaud, and some of the men are slapping Dudley on the back and shaking his hand, going out of their way to show their affection and admiration. Voldemort has had quite enough by this stage and launches himself toward Harry, grabbing him by the arm and hauling him off to the side. He glares at Harry, furious.

"Will you get your stupid Muggle relations the hell out of here!" Voldemort's face contorts in utmost anguish. "THEY ARE EMBARRASSING ME IN FRONT OF MY FRIENDS!"

Harry frees himself from Voldemort, walks over to Dudley and asks him to leave. Dudley complies reluctantly, but still manages to pose for everything he's worth on his way out as the Death Eaters take photographs.

Voldemort, now livid, reaches for his wand, but not before Harry has a chance to point his own wand at the Dark Lord and cast a spell. Voldemort freezes, then puts a coin in the jukebox, choosing a polka selection, and begins singing and dancing in time with the music.

"And a one and a two and a… oobedee oop de oop de oobie… Aaaaah! Damn that Potter brat!" Voldemort screams, freeing himself from Harry's spell with some difficulty and stopping the music with a quickly muttered counterspell. "If only I weren't subject to his magical powers! If only…"

Dudley's voice breaks in: "Bucha _are,_ Voldie. Ya _are._"

Voldemort whips his head around as he realizes that Dudley is still lingering by the door. "Get out!"

Finally rid of Dudley and Aunt Petunia, Voldemort gathers his wits and launches his final curse. "All right, Potter. We'll see who has the last laugh." With a flourish, he produces a nasty looking parchment. "That's right, Potter. This isn't a spell. It's a curse—an instructional curse, to be exact. I get to give you your instructions, you little twit."

He aims his wand at Harry while reading from the parchment. "All right, Boy Who Lived to Be a Self-Righteous Prig. Your instructions are to comport yourself in a thoroughly uptight manner. You will see the world through the warped lens of social convention and ridiculous preconceptions, and make yourself miserable in the process. In brief, you will throw away happiness with both hands."

He rolls up and pockets the parchment. "And now that I've freed myself from that last spell of yours, I get to pick any music I damn well please!" And with that, Voldemort feeds another coin into the jukebox. Conga music begins. Voldemort becomes the head of a giant conga line of dancing Death Eaters, and the conga line rhythmically snakes out of the auditorium, leaving poor Harry utterly alone.

Then the dream snapped to the railway station, the way Harry knew it would, the way it always did. Why couldn't the dream just end there and let Harry chalk it up to Voldemort's sick sense of humor. Why did the dream always continue… to the railway station… the part of the dream without Voldemort… the really bad part? The all-too-familiar scene played itself over again as Harry slept on.

Harry's worn suitcase, the one he always took with him when he left the Dursleys' at the beginning of the school year, is there on the railway station platform. Standing next to the suitcase is the little boy that Harry knows to be himself when he was in first year at Hogwarts.

Harry even remembered when this really happened. He remembered every detail of the incident with perfect clarity. At the end of first year, he had already boarded the Hogwarts Express going back to London when Hermione reminded him that he'd forgotten his suitcase. He had hurried back to the platform to get it before the train left. He remembered standing there on the platform a few seconds, next to his suitcase, thinking about how much he hated the idea of going back to the Dursleys'. But he wasn't crying; he was only thinking. And yet, in his dream…

The little boy that has to be Harry is crying, sobbing uncontrollably—absolutely heartbroken—but his face is hidden under his hood.

And that's how the dream always ended. It was frustrating too that he could never see the face under the hood. Harry wished he could at least see the messy black hair that he knew was underneath the hood. At least then he would feel some kind of satisfaction, seeing his eleven-year-old self, crying, going back to his miserable life at the Dursleys'.

Whenever Harry woke up from this dream, he felt awful. What was so mysterious was that he always woke up with the nagging feeling that he had done something terribly wrong to cause this. But that was crazy. It was the Dursleys who had made him suffer. He hadn't created his own misery. Harry truly hated this recurring dream because it always left him with an overwhelming feeling of sadness and guilt and bitter regret, and it really bugged the hell out of him.

When the morning sun slanted down on him, drawing him out of sleep, Harry found the dream as disturbing as it had always been. Voldemort. He could imagine the bastard laughing his ass off, thinking the scenario very amusing. Harry didn't find Voldemort's invasion of his mind the least bit humorous. But he couldn't dwell on this one stupid Voldemort-generated dream. There was too much happening in real life that demanded attention. This was, after all, the first week of June. Exam week at Hogwarts. Harry was at least thankful that he didn't have to endure Potions class partnered with Draco Malfoy. Professor Snape seemed to take sadistic delight in partnering the two of them, knowing full well that Draco's expertise in Potions was far superior to Harry's. Did Malfoy have to pull his macho routine every time they were in Potions class?

"All right, Potter," Draco would say, sidling up right next to Harry, just to make it more obvious that Draco was taller, "potions is my forte. Follow my lead and you might learn something." Frigging Draco Malfoy and his alpha male soul.

Later that morning, Harry sat alone on a small bluff at the edge of Hogwarts Lake, which he had always thought of as his secret refuge. He had spent the previous night, when he should have been getting much needed sleep for exams, tortured by the idiotic dream that Voldemort was always sending his way. Harry just wanted a private spot to be alone with his thoughts, and who shows up at the shore of Hogwarts Lake?

Draco Malfoy sauntered across the grassy area that lay between him and where Harry was sitting. Draco's form had filled out over the past year. He had grown taller, taller than Harry, and he wasn't as slender as he had been in years past. Draco was still wiry, but much more athletic than before, with arm muscles that stretched the fabric of the simple shirt he wore that day, having discarded his robes in the castle before setting out for Hogwarts Lake. Harry's build, in contrast, was still as wraith-like as ever.

Harry watched Draco approach; the cloudless blue sky silhouetted Draco's muscular form as he walked through the tall grass toward Harry. During the past year, Harry had become obsessed with watching Draco. His hair was that blond color you could spot from across a field… and those eyes. They were gray, right? No, there were times—lots of times, because Harry did lots of watching—that Draco's eyes looked silver instead of their usual gray color. Harry would sneak a glance when Draco and other people weren't looking, and sometimes those damned silver eyes became hypnotizing pieces of precious metal that Harry couldn't tear himself away from. Sometimes, staring at those pools of silver made him yearn for Draco to notice him.

Wait, was he crazy? Of course he could look away. Harry could think about… let's see… Potions class… detention with Snape… detention with McGonagall… anything except Draco bloody Malfoy! Why did Malfoy always have to look so… ? Draco had almost reached the bluff where Harry was sitting when a terrifying possibility struck Harry.

Urquhart. Have they told Malfoy about yesterday in the Quidditch locker room with Urquhart?

Harry silently begged the gods to give him more time to prepare for whatever scathing comments Malfoy might hurl at him when he found out about Harry's little tryst with the new Slytherin team captain.

"Well, Potter! One look at you would let anyone know you didn't get much sleep last night."

Harry stared at Draco, realizing at once that something was off. Draco was smiling. Draco Malfoy never smiled at Harry; he sneered. Harry had the gut feeling that Draco's Slytherin housemates had told him about the scene with Kyle Urquhart. Harry could only guess that Draco found it amusing. But for whatever reason, Draco was smiling now, a gentle smile that reached his eyes. First. Time. Ever.

Harry's expression was guarded. "I can thank your master, your Dark Lord, for my lack of sleep. He uses his link to my mind to send me stupid dreams—I mean _really_ stupid dreams."

Draco lifted his chin in a show of arrogance. "He's my father's master, Potter. I don't have a master." Then, instead of sneering, Draco surprised Harry with another winning smile. "Actually, I don't think I could put up with a master of any sort. I like being in charge too much. But why don't you tell me what sort of nonsense the Dark Lord is sending you in your sleep?"

Harry couldn't resist the urge to vent his frustration. He related every detail of the dream to Draco and finished, triumphantly, by declaring that he knew—just _knew_—that Voldemort did this with particular relish during the first week of June because that was exam week.

Draco Malfoy had always been adept at masking his real feelings, and this is was one occasion when this skill came in handy. He listened with genuine amusement to Harry's story about Voldemort, Aunt Petunia, Dudley and jukebox music in the ballroom, laughing to himself and thinking that this seemed like an authentic example of Voldemort's twisted humor. But then he heard Harry telling him the story about the train station, and Draco became an unreadable cipher. The mask came down over Draco's face, his thoughts inscrutable as Harry finished his story. Draco got up from where he'd been sitting, but Harry felt like he was on a roll and kept talking.

"You know, I even looked at the notes and diaries I've kept at Hogwarts over the past few years, and Voldemort has always sent me his nasty little dream on the exact same evening every year, June 4th. So of course I wake up on June 5th dead tired. Perfect timing for exams, don't you think? The same rotten dream on exactly the same day every year for five years running. I wouldn't be surprised if Voldemort knows my exam schedule."

Draco's expression betrayed no emotion whatsoever; he just turned around and started walking back toward the castle.

Harry called out after him, "So now I have to try to catch up with studying for exams. It really would be nice to have a few good hours of sleep before I do it. Not that _you_ have anything special to get done today."

Draco turned around. His clear grey eyes bored into the other boy. Harry was sure that at certain moments, such as this, the color of Draco's eyes morphed into silver. Harry began to shift nervously, although he wasn't sure why.

"Actually, Potter, today is my birthday."

* º * º *

Little more than a month had passed since the end of term. The weather at the end of July was perfect, a glorious British summer with a soft breeze wafting through Little Whinging, but there was no hope that the grand summer day would lift Harry's spirits. He was lying on his bed, staring morosely at the ceiling of his small bedroom at the Dursleys'. There was no doubt in Harry's mind that every last detail of his rendezvous with Urquhart would become common knowledge throughout Hogwarts by the time the new term began in September, and there would be no avoiding the fallout. But surely it wouldn't be hoping for too much to expect Roger Davies and the players who had happened upon Harry's fateful locker room scene to keep their collective mouths shut over summer vac. Harry needed time to prepare Ron and Hermione for the news; he wanted to tell them in his own words, in his own way.

Dashing his hopes, news of his tryst with Kyle Urquhart had traveled with the speed of a first-year Hufflepuff student taking leave after an intimate social hour with Voldemort and his pet snake, Nagini. Lying next to him on the bed was the letter Ron had just sent, the letter Harry had read several times now, desperately racking his brains for some way to turn a bad situation around. Harry picked up Ron's letter and read it yet another time:

· · · · · · Harry,

· · · · · · We have to talk. I've just heard from Terry Boot. You know that he hangs around  
· · · · · · a lot with the guys from the Ravenclaw Quidditch team, and the players from  
· · · · · · the Ravenclaw and Slytherin teams all swear up and down that they saw this wild scene  
· · · · · · when they walked in on you and Kyle Urquhart in the Quidditch locker room.  
· · · · · · What they're saying is that Urquhart was using you for sex, and you were really  
· · · · · · having yourself a grand time. Harry, you know I'll stand up for you no matter what,  
· · · · · · but right now things don't look so good. You've got to tell me what's going on.

· · · · · · Your friend always,

· · · · · · Ron

Harry couldn't have captured the situation better. Things didn't look so good at the moment, considering the circumstances. Kyle Urquhart had been dating some pretty Ravenclaw girl for the past year or so. Even goddamn Draco Malfoy was having an on-again, off-again affair with some decorous girl from Ravenclaw house. What was it with these Ravenclaw girls, anyway? Thinking about the girls in Ravenclaw only put Harry in a fouler mood. The only girl he had ever dated was Cho Chang from Ravenclaw, and the silly fiasco with Cho didn't give Harry any credentials with the opposite sex. Starting the school year at Hogwarts had always been a joyous liberation from life with the Dursleys. This time, however, Harry regarded the start of term with genuine anxiety. Would old friends turn against him? Would he be a target for abuse?

"Harry!" Aunt Petunia was shouting to him from downstairs. It seemed strange at first, but Harry was growing accustomed to Aunt Petunia's new habit of calling him by his given name. "Come downstairs. I want to have a chat with you."

"In a minute!" Harry shouted back.

Actually, everything about Aunt Petunia seemed strange and different from the moment Harry got back from Hogwarts in the last week of June. Her physical appearance, for starters, was _most_ peculiar. She had never been overweight or underweight, Harry remembered, just about the right weight for her height. But she had always covered up her body with stiff, uptight-looking clothes that might have been what Margaret Thatcher would wear to a meeting of the Industrial Development Board. No longer.

On Harry's return from Hogwarts, the first thing he saw when he entered the Dursley house was Aunt Petunia draped in some sort of high-fashion Dior-type cocktail dress which accentuated Aunt Petunia's very toned-looking body. It seemed that she and Uncle Vernon were entertaining some business guests, and Petunia shooed Harry upstairs at once. She _had_ started some sort of exercise/beauty regimen during Christmas hols, hadn't she? And her face! What was wrong with her face? The fine lines around her eyes and mouth were gone. Had she had a bit of cosmetic surgery? Bizarre. In any case, Uncle Vernon had no complaints whatsoever about his wife's new look, happily showing her off to every one of his friends and business associates. The most profound change in Aunt Petunia became apparent when Harry talked to her alone later that evening. Her attitude was the real source of the transformation. When Harry reminded her of her altered appearance, she blithely stated that it was high time she stood in the spotlight, if only to show the world that the Dursleys were putting their best foot forward.

Then, walking back to his bedroom after seeing Aunt Petunia on the day of his arrival, a sudden insight hit him like the gods throwing a cream pie in his face. His dream! The stupid recurring dream that Voldemort was always sending him. Harry had always assumed it was Voldemort who put together the contents of the dream. Yet that now seemed impossible, at least in the case of Aunt Petunia's transformation into an elegant fashion plate. For all his magical abilities, Voldemort had never shown evidence of any predictive powers. If Voldemort had been gifted with the ability to look into the future, he would have never attempted to kill Harry when the boy was a year old, since it resulted in Voldemort's own catastrophic near-death. So how could Voldemort have predicted Aunt Petunia's newly developing elegance, something that was on display first in Harry's dream and now in real life. Voldemort couldn't have predicted it. With a growing sense of discomfort, Harry was forced to acknowledge the possibility that at least part of his dream had a source other than Voldemort. An even odder possibility presented itself: the images Harry was viewing while he was asleep might be not so much a dream as disjointed visions of real life.

"Harry!" Aunt Petunia's shout jolted Harry out of his reverie.

"Be right there!"

Walking into the downstairs parlor, Harry saw Petunia dressed in a snug-fitting summer frock, sitting on a chaise lounge pretty as can be, with a low table in front of her.

"Harry, come see," Aunt Petunia commanded. "Dudley has just sent us photographs of himself from his holiday in Italy."

Photographs of Dudley vacationing in Italy. What could possibly be more insipid? Well at least Harry hadn't had to cross paths with Dudley, not from the moment Harry got back from Hogwarts. Dudley had already left for a vacation in Italy before Harry arrived. Harry supposed that he could bear a few minutes of looking at photographs of fat, sloppy Dudley striking stupid poses in Italy.

Harry sat down next to Aunt Petunia. The photographs were already arranged on the table in front of them, and Harry's eyes nearly popped out of his head. Who was this sixteen-year-old boy in the photos and what had he done with the real Dudley Dursley? Dudley was a knockout. He had lost all the excess weight, and in its place was muscle—nothing overly bulky, just very lean muscle. Harry willed himself not to get a hard on, although this took some determined effort.

"Harry, why are you slouching in your seat and rearranging your pants? How many times have I told you to sit up straight?"

Harry, pants rearranged, obliged and sat up straighter.

"Duddles does look remarkably fit, doesn't he," Petunia mused, admiring the photographs. "You know, the local girls in Italy are showering him with attention. He has a date every evening. I don't know if you remember, Harry, but Dudley was trying to lose some weight back around Christmas. Well, he tried all during spring, but without much success. Poor Duddles was so discontent about it that we decided to give him a summer holiday in Italy, thinking that perhaps a change of scene would do him good. He's been sending us photos since he arrived in Italy, but during the first few weeks of June, he looked much the same as he always had. It was during the last week of June, right around his sixteenth birthday, when this dramatic change took place in his appearance. Within a few weeks after that, he was as thin and fit as you see him now."

"I'm surprised he was able to do it, but seeing is believing," was all Harry could manage to say.

"I've even taken some trouble to improve my own image."

"Er, I was wondering about that," Harry said, taking advantage of the chance to satisfy his curiosity about why Petunia had turned so uncharacteristically fashionable of late. "I mean all your posh new clothes and everything."

Petunia gave Harry a sidelong glance, and then presented him with information he certainly wouldn't have guessed on his own. "You never really knew my worthless sister, of course"—Petunia paused a moment, then amended her statement—"I mean, your mother." She cleared her throat. "I've never mentioned this, Harry, but your mother held a powerful attraction for men. When we were teenagers, I thought it was related to that…" Petunia squirmed in her seat, "… you know, that nasty business that you and those freakish people at your school…"

"Magic," Harry added helpfully.

"Yessss." Aunt Petunia gritted her teeth. "Well, this past year while you were at school, I came to realize that the magnetism my sister exerted on the opposite sex had nothing to do with, er… the disagreeable nonsense you're involved with at that school of yours. That captivating charm was really…" Petunia waved her hand in the air with an elegant gesture, "… it was an essence we had both inherited from our parents… and our grandparents. I was mistaken all these years to think that I shouldn't allow that allure to come to the surface, that I shouldn't let myself shine. I deserve to let my natural elegance stand out just as much as my good-for-nothing sister ever did. Actually, I deserve it more since she was always such an objectionable weirdo."

"Which brings me to your own thoroughly shabby appearance," Aunt Petunia continued, artfully changing the subject. "I mean your clothes are hopeless, and those goofy-looking spectacles… you're just such a… such a mess. It's embarrassing."

Harry found Petunia's line of criticism irritating. "Well, it's not as though you or Uncle Vernon ever bought me so much as an article of clothing. I never wore anything except Dudley's hand-me-downs."

"That isn't a valid excuse any more. I know quite well that your parents left you a sizable amount of money. You keep it at some bank in London, don't you? Some bank that caters to…" Petunia couldn't bring herself to mention the subject of magic. "You know, those strange people you cavort with at that school for weirdos."

"It's called Gringotts Bank," Harry said through clenched teeth.

"Well then take a bit of money out and make some use of it. I simply must insist that you make yourself more presentable. I'm going to London today while Uncle Vernon is at a convention. I want you to come with me. You can do your banking while I eat lunch. Then we'll go shopping for clothes. You have to buy some clothes of your own, and you certainly have the money to do it. I can advise you, and the sales personnel at the clothing stores are also quite knowledgeable. Come on then." Aunt Petunia was standing up now. "Into the car. I know the route very well."

Harry just sighed and followed his aunt.

"And as long as we're in London"—Petunia was glancing at Harry over her shoulder—"you may as well buy a set of contact lenses. They're extremely easy to wear nowadays. Those spectacles of yours are just too ridiculous."

It was late in the evening when Harry and Aunt Petunia returned from London. Petunia tossed all of Harry's packages next to the kitchen table.

"All right, let me have a good look at you." Harry was already wearing some of his new clothes as well as the contact lenses. "Stand up straight!" Aunt Petunia appraised Harry critically, but seemed satisfied. "There, what did I tell you? Entirely more presentable. Now tomorrow, you'll have to cook for yourself. Your uncle will be arriving back from the convention early in the morning, but only to pick me up. We're going to be out of town with some of your uncle's business associates all day, and we'll be staying out of town overnight. But I don't think you really have anything important to do tomorrow."

No, July 31st had never been any big deal at the Dursleys'. "Nothing much to do. It's just my birthday," Harry replied quietly.

"Oh, you've always been so obsessed with being the center of attention." Aunt Petunia rolled her eyes. "All right, I give up." She went over to the cupboard and opened a small box she had gotten that morning at the bakery. She removed a single chocolate cupcake, got a maraschino cherry from the refrigerator, stuck the cherry on the cupcake and set the cupcake on the kitchen table.

"Happy birthday and good night." With that, she left the kitchen and went upstairs.

* º * º *

When Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon returned the day after Harry's birthday, Vernon just avoided Harry entirely, as he had been doing since Harry had gotten back from Hogwarts in June. Petunia passed Harry on her way inside, then froze in her tracks, turned around and stood stock still, staring at Harry. Her expression was both shrewd and nervous.

"What's wrong with you?" she asked.

Harry couldn't imagine what Petunia was on about now. "Nothing's wrong with me."

Petunia looked both fascinated and horrified. "Why do you look like that? You didn't look like that before we went out of town yesterday. In fact, you've never looked like that until now." A pause. "You look… strange. Well, you've _always_ been strange, but nothing like this. It's as if your body is sending off… sparkles of light… or little pieces of glitter… or something." Aunt Petunia shook her head before glancing warily back at Harry. "Unearthly," she muttered, and then scooted back into the kitchen.

Harry decided that for the remainder of his stay at the Dursleys', he'd spend as much of his time as possible in his bedroom. Flopping down on his bed, Harry noticed that a new owl had arrived, this one from Hermione. Her letter was very similar to the one he'd received from Ron, although Hermione's tone was a little more shocked. She remarked about how surprised she was that Harry would be so "careless and indiscreet." But she closed her letter by promising to support Harry.

After much indecision, Harry sent off replies to both Ron and Hermione, assuring them that the episode with Urquhart was just an experiment. He also told them he was sure that Urquhart had no intention of carrying things any further. Harry knew Ron and Hermione would accept this, but he had no idea if anyone else at Hogwarts would be so understanding. There was every possibility that the coming year would be torturous. Things might even get so bad that he could be forced to leave Hogwarts… and it was the only real home he had ever known. There was just no telling. For the first time ever, Harry dreaded going back to Hogwarts.

Harry walked over to the small mirror on the wall and examined his reflection. What on earth was Aunt Petunia talking about? He looked the same as he always had.


	2. Dangerously Gorgeous

**Title: **Congenital Magnetism  
**Author: **Ascyltus  
**Completed: **Yes  
**Summary: **At the end of his fifth year, Harry displays his effortless knack for landing himself in problematic situations. Luckily, Harry begins to develop some unusual abilities that he has inherited by virtue of being one-quarter Veela. Only Draco Malfoy seems to be immune to Harry's newly found powers.  
**Disclaimer: **This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Chapter 2: Dangerously Gorgeous**

August ended in a wave of sweltering heat. Thankful for the air conditioning at the Dursleys', Harry lay sprawled out across his bed late in the evening on the last day of August. He was reading the letters Ron and Hermione had just sent him, and the contents were even less encouraging than the first letters they had sent him a month ago. During August, Ron and Hermione had both been in contact with a number of Gryffindor students who would also be starting sixth year, and even a few Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff students. From what they said in their letters, Harry might need to prepare for a frosty reception at Hogwarts. Word of Harry's less-than-discreet sexual adventure with Kyle Urquhart may as well have been published in the _Daily Prophet,_ and a chill ran down Harry's spine as he realized that an article in the _Daily Prophet_ was not too far-fetched of a notion.

According to the rumor mill, the Slytherin students were sticking by Urquhart, particularly the players on the Slytherin Quidditch team, which Urquhart would captain this year. Most of the sixth-year boys in Slytherin thought the whole affair comic. Harry could understand how easy it was for them to take that attitude. After all, Urquhart was still dating his long-term Ravenclaw girlfriend, who breezily dismissed the entire affair as irrelevant—this in contrast to Harry, whose experience with the opposite sex was close to nothing. And of course, there was the small matter of Harry playing bottom for Urquhart—with utter abandon. Maybe Harry would even be ignored by some of the students in his own house. He remembered, with a bit of envy, that Slytherins were notoriously loyal to each other. Ron and Hemione assured Harry again, in their most recent letters, that he could still count on their friendship; other than that, they told him, he could expect a lot of students to keep their distance from him. The next morning, Harry would have to board the Hogwarts Express and face the music.

* º * º *

Early in the morning, Aunt Petunia was standing at the bottom of the stairs. She glanced at her watch as she drummed her fingers on the banister. Her haughty voice wafted up toward Harry's bedroom, serving as his alarm clock.

"It's time that we were off to King's Cross Station."

Uncle Vernon had already left, and Dudley would not return from his vacation in Italy until the evening. Once Harry had dragged his suitcase and trunk downstairs, he caught sight of the very altered Aunt Petunia that had greeted him when he had returned from Hogwarts in June. Petunia was displaying her new look, the stunning elegance that made heads turn everywhere she went. She was wearing a ruffly Oscar de la Renta blouse made of some translucent fabric that showed off her toned curves; under that was a wrap-around chiffon skirt of the type that professional dancers often use. At 38, Petunia had become the very incarnation of grace and allure.

Harry tried to ignore the fact of Petunia's transformation and asked, "Isn't it a bit early still?"

"My schedule today is quite full, and I'd like to drop you off at the train station early. I'm sure you'll be able to occupy yourself while you're waiting for your train to leave." Her tone brooked no argument, so Harry's things were presently arranged in the boot of the car.

Before Harry got into the car, Aunt Petunia pulled a torn piece of paper out of her purse and handed it to Harry. "I've kept this bit of nonsense ever since your mother died. It was among her effects, and your strange friends…" She paused and shuddered. "Those people placed it in my mailbox in an envelope when they left you on our doorstep."

Harry looked at the piece of paper and his jaw dropped when he saw the name at the top.

"I believe it was written by a man who was well-known to your parents," Petunia continued, "by the name of Sirius Black."

Harry's voice choked with emotion. "My godfather."

"Your godfather? Indeed," Petunia noted, curiosity creeping into her tone. "In any case, I've read it and it's utter nonsense. By all appearances, it seems to be an excerpt from some kind of research. But this person, this Sirius Black, mentions my mother of all people in the strangest context. Yes, that's right, Harry. Your maternal grandmother. He claims that my mother was of a different race. Have you ever heard a notion as queer as that? Did he think that my mother was from China? I couldn't make heads or tails of the rest of it, but you may keep it. If you can make any sense out of it, you deserve an award. The date at the top of the page is from 1977, so I suppose it was written when my sister was attending that school… that weirdo school you attend. Well, into the car, Harry. You can read that on the way to the station."

Aunt Petunia, now in the driver's seat, was scrutinizing Harry as he climbed into the passenger seat. "You're still doing that strange new thing of yours… whatever it is that your face and body do. I suppose the change is permanent." Petunia continued to examine Harry, now that he was sitting in the car. Her expression revealed how disturbing she found Harry's recent physical appearance.

Harry's impatience was beginning to show. "I still don't know what you're talking about. Are you sure it's not the new clothes you made me buy? Or maybe the contact lenses?"

"No. It has nothing to do with any of that. I saw you when we got back from shopping in London, and you still looked normal. Well, as close to normal as you ever _did_ manage to look. The unearthly change happened a couple days later, after your birthday. It's as though your skin glows, and your body emanates tiny sparkly pieces of glitter." A panic-stricken look crossed her face. "Harry, I don't think you are aware of the havoc you may now be able to cause."

Petunia straightened her back and set her jaw in a show of fortitude, as one who was witnessing the civilization she had always known begin to collapse. She gave Harry another searching look. Aunt Petunia's eyes widened and her hand moved up to her face.

"God help us all," she said.

During the drive to King's Cross Station, Harry retrieved Sirius's torn manuscript page from his pocket with a pang of sadness. It had been less than three months since Bellatrix had murdered Sirius at the Department of Mysteries. Harry was ecstatic to have some new link to Sirius, a manuscript page in Sirius's own hand. He settled back, shutting out every other thought, and read Sirius's notes on the unusual subject matter.

· · · · · · Lily's biracial bloodline is attributable to her mother, Mrs. Evans, who was of a different  
· · · · · · racial inheritance than the rest of us. The fact that Lily was partially of another race  
· · · · · · explains the magnetism she possesses with regards to so many of the male students  
· · · · · · at Hogwarts—and even some of the professors—something which began to manifest  
· · · · · · itself after Lily's sixteenth birthday.

· · · · · · As a valid scientific question, I have often considered what effects a male of Mrs. Evans's  
· · · · · · race would have on others. I have been able to uncover what little information exists  
· · · · · · concerning Mrs. Evans and her family, and it seems that her father, Lily's grandfather,  
· · · · · · exerted a powerful influence on women, and even some men. This brings me  
· · · · · · to another valid matter of inquiry. What if a male of Mrs. Evans's race were himself  
· · · · · · attracted more to his own sex than the opposite sex. How would this alter the dynamics  
· · · · · · of his powers? There are so many possible scenarios. Would he still attract mainly women,  
· · · · · · or would he exert his magnetism over a larger proportion of men and a smaller proportion  
· · · · · · of women? Or is it possible that he would hold powers of attraction over the vast majority  
· · · · · · of men, and women not at all? I could find no historical data concerning such a circumstance,  
· · · · · · but it would be fascinating to document such a case.

After Petunia dropped him off at the station, Harry soon found himself walking in the direction of Platform 9 ¾. Harry's attention was arrested by a Muggle woman who was looking at Harry in shock. Harry hurried past her, and further on he approached a group of three Muggle men that he guessed were electrical technicians. They were repairing some power cables. Then they saw Harry, and all three were grinning as though Christmas had arrived early with a mountain of presents under the Christmas tree.

"Oi, lad!" said one, approaching Harry with a winning smile. "Did you ever think of starting an apprenticeship as an electrician?"

Harry was able to evade the group of Muggle men by dragging his suitcase and trunk around a familiar corner, which brought him to the place where Platform 9? appeared, offering him an easy escape. He was wondering what these Muggles were on about as he boarded the train, but his thoughts turned to the possibility of encountering hostile remarks from any number of other students on the Hogwarts Express. From Ron's and Hermione's letters, Harry gathered that the news of his locker-room sex scene with Kyle Urquhart had reached many, if not most, Hogwarts students. Those who didn't know would most likely find out after meeting with the other students on the train.

Harry guessed that he was the first one on board, having arrived so much earlier than necessary. Just as well. Harry wasn't keen on having any insulting remarks from his fellow students hurled his way and sought out the compartment he had often used in years past, hoping to be left alone. There was at least one fortunate circumstance Harry could think of: Kyle Urquhart never took the Hogwarts Express from London since his family lived in Scotland, much closer to Hogwarts itself. At least there wouldn't be any embarrassing chance meeting with Urquhart on the train.

Harry was already resigned to a lonely, unsociable school year. He might be treated coolly by some, and shunned by others. He was so much looking forward to playing Quidditch again. He could only hope that the other players on the Gryffindor team would tolerate him. He thought it only fair. After all, everyone deserves a sporting chance. Harry's ruminations were cut short by the sound of the compartment door opening.

"Harry!" Ron had appeared in the doorway and his smile was radiant. He was sitting by Harry's side in an instant, having tossed his own suitcase and trunk in a corner of the train compartment. Ron then proceeded to give Harry a good, sound kiss on the lips.

On the lips? Harry tried to make sense of the situation as his thoughts tripped over each other. On the lips? ! In what alternate universe does Ron Weasley kiss a boy, even his best mate, on the lips?

Harry wiggled back enough to end their kiss, trying to remain polite. "Ron," Harry managed, "your last letter… You told me a lot of the students might ignore me, you know, because of that thing with Urquhart."

It took Ron a moment to clear his thoughts. "Oh, right." He was smiling again. "Forget about those stupid letters I wrote. Who cares what anybody thinks?" Harry was still sitting and Ron was straddling him now, one knee on either side of Harry's legs. "Forget Urquhart. Don't spare him another thought." Ron's hands were reaching underneath Harry. "You have your best mate, Harry," Ron said, nuzzling Harry's neck. "Whatever you fancy doing"—Ron started to squeeze Harry's bum—"it'll be more fun with your best mate."

With Harry facing toward the door and Ron facing away from the door, Hermione's eyes first met Harry's as she walked into the compartment, seeing him with some redhead boy holding him down.

"Harry! What in Merlin's name are you up to now? Don't you think it's bad enough to have all these stories going around about you and Urquhart without you—"

Hermione stopped short as the redhead boy turned around to face her. "Ron! What on God's earth are you doing? Have you lost your mind entirely?"

Ron didn't miss a beat. "Hermione, this is Harry, my best mate. You don't think I'd abandon him to the likes of Kyle Urquhart, do you?"

Hermione was about to offer a retort when her reply was cut short by someone shouting in a distinctive Irish brogue.

"Weasley, you ignoramus! First, you were chasing after that part-Veela girl from France, then Padma Patil, then Hermione, and now you expect Harry to believe that you could care for him? Let go of him!" Seamus Finnigan launched himself at Ron and pulled him off Harry, causing both Seamus and Ron to topple backwards onto the floor.

Meanwhile, in a compartment a short distance down the corridor, Draco Malfoy and Greg Goyle were engaged in a conversation concerning English literature.

"You remember first year, of course," Draco was saying. "I stayed up quite late at night throughout that year helping you to get passing marks in your classes. You know, I'm delighted that your parents have pushed you into acquiring some appreciation for the English language. I was surprised that they didn't mind your interest in Muggle literature. My parents have always encouraged me to read classic English literature, whether it was Muggle or not."

"My parents couldn't have pushed me into it," was Greg's reply. "They introduced me to some of the most beautiful verse ever written, and I fell in love with it. I've already committed a lot of it to memory. And no, my parents have nothing against reading Muggle literature." Greg looked down at a large volume he was holding, an anthology of some of the most celebrated English poetry from various eras.

"Well, however it happened, it's a blessing. At least now you're able to write a half-decent school report with no assistance from me"—Draco smirked—"leaving me free for other pursuits."

Greg opened the volume and turned to a bookmarked page. "Listen to this stanza."

· · · · · · O my luve's like a red, red rose.  
· · · · · · That's newly sprung in June;  
· · · · · · O my luve's like a melodie  
· · · · · · That's sweetly play'd in…

This last was interrupted by a huge crash in the corridor outside the Slytherin compartment. Two boys were involved in some violent altercation, and the two of them alternately banged against the compartment door, threatening to break it down. Draco threw open the door to reveal the surprising sight of Ron Weasley and Seamus Finnigan engaged in mortal combat.

"You just want to shag Harry senseless," Ron was shouting, "and once you've had your way, you'll drop him. I'm his best mate."

Seamus was dodging Ron's punches and throwing a few of his own. "I'd never drop Harry," he shouted back, "and you're just a possessive moron who can't understand that Harry could love someone else."

At this point, Seamus had gained some advantage and had his hands around Ron's throat, which was when Draco intervened. Draco had his wand out, pointed at Seamus.

"Finnigan, let go of Weasley and shove off. I'm a prefect, and I'm not afraid to use my authority."

Draco's threat gave Seamus pause, and it was all the opportunity Ron needed to extricate himself from Seamus's grip and then dash down the corridor toward the Gryffindor compartment, passing a distraught Hermione along the way.

Seamus bolted up onto his feet. "He's after Harry again, he is!"

Hermione, seeing Seamus approaching at a gallop, uttered a plaintive cry. "In the name of everything sacred, will the two of you please, please stop? !"

Draco and Greg were now running down the corridor themselves, determined to find the source of the disruption. When Draco and Greg entered the Gryffindor compartment, Hermione was already inside pointing her wand at Ron, who was madly kissing Harry and trying to work his hands around Harry's bum while Harry was busy trying to push Ron off.

"Seamus, stay back," Hermione ordered, waving her wand at Seamus.

"Harry, baby," Ron was crooning. "It'll be so much better with me, I promise." Ron began to dry hump Harry, all the while showering him with soft kisses. With some effort, Harry managed to break free momentarily.

"Ron, stop!" Hermione said it with such force that Ron turned around, but only for a moment, before returning to his previous pursuit.

_"Pastafarius!"_

No sooner was the spell out of Hermione's mouth than innumerable lengths of cooked spaghetti enveloped Ron, binding his hands and legs. Hermione's spell produced spaghetti that had been cooked al dente, so the center was still very firm, and as a result, stronger. The pasta even wrapped itself around Ron's mouth, making speech impossible.

Now Hermione turned her wand on the Irish boy. "All right, Seamus. I want you to take the compartment two doors down and stay there. No nonsense out of you, is it clear?"

Seamus, who was without his wand, could see that resistance would be foolish at this point, and he had a pasta-wrapped Ron Weasley as an example. Seamus cast one last lustful look at Harry, and then exited the compartment.

"I think you can lower your wand, Granger."

Hermione turned around, aware of Draco's and Greg's presence. She was also aware that Draco had his own wand out. Hermione, calming down, lowered her wand.

"I had no choice but to investigate the disruption," Draco said. "As you saw from the corridor, Weasley and Finnigan practically broke down the door to our compartment as they were fighting. Er, Granger, not to split hairs"—Draco's tone was smooth and playful—"but I thought Weasley was straight."

Hermione was not amused. "Shut it, Malfoy."

Draco looked over at Harry. "Well, Potter, it seems you've become rather more popular this year."

Harry, who was gingerly tidying himself up after having been thoroughly snogged by Ron, looked at Draco, and then—Harry couldn't fathom why—he found it impossible not to stare at Draco.

"Malfoy," he whispered.

Harry looked around and realized that Hermione was frozen in place, and then looked out the window of the compartment and realized that all the people on the train platform were also frozen in their tracks, like mannequins in a storefront window. Time had stopped, and not a single person or thing Harry saw was any more capable of motion than a statue—except for Draco, who gazed back at Harry with a questioning look on his face. Draco opened his mouth, as if to say something, then closed it again, his face clouded with uncertainty.

Harry heard the sound of a train passing, which he knew was absurd because the Hogwarts Express was still in King's Cross Station and hadn't even started its engine yet. Harry felt lightheaded; if he hadn't been holding onto one of the seats, he might have passed out. Then his heart started beating faster and faster until it was pounding against his chest. Some connection was formed between Harry and Draco in that instant, and the connection was palpable—it felt like the silk threads of a spider web. Harry moved his body, just to see, and as he did, what felt like delicate threads around his body were being tugged from Draco's direction. Draco felt it too—though he tried to shrug it off—the increased speed of his heartbeat, and the threads, barely visible but indestructible, that now bound Harry and him together for some unfathomable purpose.

All at once, time resumed its normal passage and the world unfroze. Hermione moved closer to where Draco was standing, near the door, and voiced her suspicions.

"Listen, Malfoy. For all we know, this could be the result of some spell. I'll start to research the possible spells someone might have cast on Ron and Seamus when we arrive at Hogwarts," Hermione said in her most academic tone. "How do we know it wasn't someone in Slytherin who cast spells on Ron and Seamus, just to disrupt Gryffindor house this year?"

"Fine, Granger. We'll get to the bottom of it, but don't be surprised if the spell is self-inflicted. Maybe Weasley and Finnigan were working on one of their stupid Gryffindor practical jokes, and it boomeranged."

Little did Hermione know that her suspicions about a Slytherin plot were being disproved at that very moment. While Draco and Hermione were still engaged in trading verbal jabs, Greg Goyle was in front of Harry, cornering him at the back of the compartment. Greg reached one hand around the back of Harry's neck and wrapped the other hand around Harry's fingers. Harry watched in disbelief as Greg kissed Harry's fingers with such tenderness that Harry was entertaining the notion that this was some imposter who had drunk Polyjuice Potion.

"Goyle?" Harry said, not knowing what to think.

Greg's hands—half again as big as Harry's—now pinned Harry in one corner of the compartment, and Greg's powerful build—narrow hips and the broad, muscular shoulders of a weightlifter—barred any possibility of escape. Greg intertwined his fingers with Harry's, then moved his free hand to the small of Harry's back and pulled Harry in until their groins were glued to each other. Greg's expression was ethereal as he said, "Harry," and the hand that was holding Harry's lower back tugged Harry's shirt out of his pants. Greg's hand traveled underneath the clothes and against Harry's bare bum, and then Greg squeezed Harry's bum—hard. With a quick movement, Harry was at least able to steer clear of Greg's wandering hand. Greg smiled and shrugged, then began to recite.

· · · · · · Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?  
· · · · · · Thou art more lovely and more temperate.

By this time, Greg had wrapped Harry in his arms and pocketed Harry's wand as well. Draco and Hermione turned around to witness this new spectacle.

· · · · · · Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,  
· · · · · · And summer's lease hath all too short a date.

"Greg?" Draco began, but Greg had his wand out, pulling Harry next to the door with him. Greg and Harry already had their backs against the door.

"Harry wants to hear the rest of it, don't you, love?" Greg nuzzled Harry's ear. "Come down the corridor with me. I'll read the rest of it to you." Greg had now scooped Harry up in his arms, Harry's wand in his back pocket.

"You know, Goyle"—Harry tried his utmost to sound reasonable, all the while struggling to get out of Greg's arms and back on the floor—"I could always just get a copy of the poem from the library."

But Greg was already out the door with Harry in tow. Other students had now come into the corridor, drawn by the commotion. Pansy Parkinson had emerged from one of the Slytherin compartments, and Terry Boot had likewise come out from a compartment he shared with his fellow Ravenclaw students. Draco and Hermione had both come out into the corridor looking for Greg and Harry.

When Pansy saw Greg Goyle carrying the still-struggling Harry down the corridor in his arms, she accosted Hermione. "What is he doing with Potter?" she demanded. "And why does Potter look like that—you know, those little sparkling pieces of glitter that are bouncing off his body. It's weird."

"Look, I don't know what's come over Goyle, but Ron and Seamus have been behaving in the same way. I…" Hermione threw up her hands, "… all right, I just don't know why it's happening."

Pansy had a shrewd look on her face. She looked at Terry and then back at Hermione.

"Then what about Potter?" Pansy asked. "That glitter stuff that continually shoots off of his body. It's like little clouds of confetti. The tiny pieces of confetti have colored lights inside them, and they don't just fall to the ground. They fly about in the air for a bit. Don't tell me you don't see it."

Hermione fidgeted and stalled. Finally, she gave in. She had no choice but to acknowledge the strange glow and the mass of sparkling airborne pieces of glitter she saw whenever she looked at Harry.

"Yes, I see them," Hermione said, "but I thought it was just my imagination. I didn't think anyone else noticed it, but if you see them, then I guess it's not just me."

Now a Ravenclaw girl who was in the corridor chimed in. "I saw it too. These tiny little flecks of glitter were shooting off Potter's body. They're small, but they're really colorful, so you can definitely see them."

"That's the very same thing I saw!" added another girl.

The only other boys who had seen Greg and Harry were Terry and Draco.

"You saw the glitter around Potter too, didn't you, Boot?" Pansy asked.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Terry answered. "Sparkles of light? Little pieces of glitter? I think you girls are having hallucinations."

Pansy was dumbfounded. She had never thought of herself as the type who would have hallucinations. "Draco. You saw it, didn't you?"

"No, Pansy dearest. No sparkles of light, no pieces of glitter. I'm afraid you girls must have taken your crazy pill this morning."

"Terry," Hermione asked, "you mean you don't notice anything different about Harry's appearance?"

"Well, yeah." Terry's grin turned wicked. "Harry's bloody gorgeous. I don't know why I didn't notice before, but I sure notice now. So where is Goyle going with Harry?"

Hermione shook her head, unable to make sense of the situation. "He wants to read Harry some Shakespeare sonnet. Malfoy tells me that Goyle has become very well versed in poetry over summer vac."

"Goyle?" Terry spat the name. "He can't recite poetry! If Harry wants to hear poetry…" But Terry had already taken off down the corridor.

"Tell me, Granger"—Draco smirked in his trademark fashion—"do you still think this is all a Slytherin plot? I mean, now that poor Greg seems to have fallen victim?"

Hermione sighed. "All right, Malfoy, point taken." Now Hermione studied Draco's reaction as she asked her next question. "And you don't see the same startling change in Harry's appearance that Ron, Seamus and Goyle all do?"

"No, I'm sure I don't," Draco replied. "Of course Potter's begun to dress much better. Perhaps his Muggle relations finally insisted that he buy some proper clothes. And he's gotten rid of those ridiculous spectacles. Other than that, Potter looks quite the same."

Hermione added Draco's answer to a puzzling assortment of information. "Curious," she said.

"So, Granger"—Draco extended his hand toward the other end of the corridor in a gallant gesture, a smile plastered across his mouth—"are you in the mood for a poetry reading?"

Draco and Hermione made their way down the corridor. By this time, most of the students had heeded the usual instructions to return to their compartments since the Hogwarts Express was pulling out of King's Cross Station and picking up speed. As Hermione and Draco approached the compartment that Draco and Greg had been in before, they heard Greg's low voice give life to Shakespeare's verse. They joined Terry Boot, who was already watching Harry and Greg from just outside the door. Listening to Greg, it occurred to Hermione that the gravel texture of his voice was well suited to poetry.

· · · · · · But thy eternal summer shall not fade  
· · · · · · Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st;  
· · · · · · Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,  
· · · · · · When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st:  
· · · · · · So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,  
· · · · · · So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

Greg, however, had a few notions other than poetry and was pulling Harry to his feet and wrapping his arm around Harry's shoulder.

"Come on then, Harry. There's an empty compartment down the corridor."

But Harry was determined to get his wand back. "Goyle—"

Greg had a hurt look in his eyes, and he lifted Harry's hand and started kissing his fingers.

"You don't need to call me Goyle."

Exasperated, Harry gave in and called Greg by his given name. "All right. Greg, I should be getting back to my compartment, and I really need my wand back." Harry was reaching around toward Greg's back pocket to retrieve his wand, but Greg was avoiding Harry's maneuver and reaching his arms behind Harry's knees, positioning himself to scoop Harry up off his feet again.

"Greg!" Draco's voice cut short Greg Goyle's plans. "You cannot carry Potter about the train like this. Remember, I am a prefect, and I'm sure there are regulations concerning this sort of thing. He needs to go back to his own compartment."

This was answered by Greg's cri de coeur: "But Harry needs me!"

Seeing no other alternative, Draco pointed his wand at Greg. _"Immobulus!"_

Although Draco's spell now kept Greg immobilized, Hermione wasn't convinced that this would be sufficient. "Malfoy, we need to keep Goyle out of trouble for the entire train journey." She pointed her wand at Greg.

_"Caramelus!"_

This created long strands of hard caramel candy that wrapped themselves around Greg's arms and legs.

"That should do the trick after the Immobulus spell wears off," Hermione explained.

Draco kept his gaze on Hermione, and one eyebrow arched up. "Granger, what is it with you and these culinary spells? First spaghetti and now caramel."

"Well, I was trying to improve my cooking skills over summer vac, and I discovered that a lot of recipes can be combined with spells."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Only you would come up with something like that."

Terry Boot, who had been watching along with Draco and Hermione, was not idle during all of this. As soon as Hermione's caramel spell had taken effect, Terry grabbed his opportunity. He retrieved Greg's volume of poetry from the floor; then he moved on to Greg, who was now conveniently caramelized, and snatched Harry's wand out of Greg's back pocket. Securely in possession of both the poetry volume and Harry's wand, Terry steered Harry over to the next compartment while Draco and Hermione were discussing culinary spells.

"Harry, Goyle doesn't know how to recite poetry." Terry had his arm around Harry's waist while he held the poetry book in the other hand. "This one is just for us, love," Terry said, and gave Harry a little kiss on the cheek.

"So, Potter," Draco was saying, "let's get you back to your own compartment so that you can't get into any more trouble…" Draco stopped short as he and Hermione looked around the compartment and realized that Harry was missing in action.

"Oh, Merlin! What's happened to him now?" Hermione said.

Draco remained calm. "He couldn't have gone far."

And indeed, the first thing Draco and Hermione heard when they entered the corridor was Terry's passionate voice coming from the next compartment:

· · · · · · Come live with me and be my love,  
· · · · · · And we will all the pleasures prove,

Looking into the compartment, it was apparent that Terry Boot was intent on proving a few pleasures of his own design with Harry, who was trapped in a seat at the far end of the compartment. Terry was kneeling in front of him, trying to encircle Harry's bum with his arm.

· · · · · · That valleys, groves, hills and fields,  
· · · · · · Woods or steepy mountains yields.

"Boot"—Draco's drawling voice oozed authority—"give Potter his wand back. You and I are going to take a stroll down to your compartment where you belong." Hermione was standing next to Draco looking equally determined.

Terry was now facing two prefects, both with wands drawn; he concluded that, at least under the present circumstances, discretion was the better part of valor. Terry handed Harry his wand, pocketed his own and accompanied Draco back down the corridor, leaving Harry and Hermione alone with each other.

Hermione now turned her full attention on Harry. "Let's take this from the beginning. What in Merlin's name is going on?"

"I honestly don't know," Harry pleaded.

"Come on, Harry. _Think._ You must have some notion. What about all that glitter stuff around you—I mean, those colorful little sparkle things your body keeps throwing off. Sometimes, when there's a whole cloud of them, I have to bat them away with my hand while I'm talking to you. At first, I thought I was the only one who sees them, but Parkinson and a few other girls said they see them too."

Harry squirmed a little, uncomfortable with the subject since others were verifying what Aunt Petunia had been saying all along. "A couple days after my birthday, my Aunt Petunia started telling me that she saw the glitter stuff and that my skin glowed in some strange way. I thought she was nutters, which wouldn't be out of character for her."

Hermione shook her head. "Not unless we're all nutters—the girls at any rate. And why don't any of the boys see it?" Then Hermione gave Harry a piercing look. "And why isn't Malfoy affected like all the other boys are? He's the only boy who's not trying to"—Hermione shifted—"you know," she continued, trying to be prim, "get you into the sack."

Harry looked away and shrugged.

"I saw you when Malfoy came into our compartment. Remember? When I had to"—she paused—"immobilize Ron. You couldn't stop looking at Malfoy. What was _that_ all about?"

Harry turned to Hermione with a haunted look. "You promise you won't think I'm crazy? Or making this up?"

"Tell me, Harry. I know you're not crazy, and it might help us figure out what's happening."

Harry paused, gathering his nerve. "When I saw Draco come into the compartment, I felt my heart start to race, and then pound until it almost hurt. Then I felt these fine threads—like regular thread, but much finer and softer. The threads were hard to see, but I felt them against my skin even though I was wearing clothes, and they were all over my body." Harry's eyes misted over. "And then I moved my body in one direction, as a test, and I felt the threads pulling from Draco's direction. Weird, eh?"

"Maybe not weird, but I can't make any sense out of it yet." Hermione gave out a long sigh. "Let's get back to our own compartment so you can stay out of trouble." Hermione paused at the door of the compartment. "Harry, why did you call him Draco just now?"

"I did _not_ call him that." Harry scowled. "I wouldn't have. I called him Malfoy."

Hermione narrowed her eyes as she examined Harry. Then they entered the corridor together and returned to their own compartment to find a small mound of spaghetti, most of the strands chewed in half.

"Ron's escaped!" Hermione rushed over to the chewed up spaghetti and looked around desperately in every direction. "We have to find some way of fortifying the compartment door so that he won't be able to break it down."

But Ron was already a step ahead of everyone. From out in the corridor, Harry and Hermione could hear the outraged shouting of Blaise Zabini.

"What do you mean, you need to borrow a broom?" Blaise was yelling. "That broom belongs to one of the Chasers on our team. It's your own fault if you didn't have a broom over summer vac. You Gryffindors are so clueless."

"Come on, Zabini," Ron was begging, "I'll only borrow it for a bit, and I'll return it straight away."

"What do you need a broom for anyway?" Blaise shouted back. "What kind of maniac are you? Do you think you're going to be flying alongside the train?"

Hearing Ron's voice, Harry and Hermione returned to the corridor, and the noisy argument between Ron and Blaise was now drawing other students into the corridor as well, including Draco, who had only just managed to deposit Terry Boot back in the Ravenclaw compartment. When Ron saw Harry, he shouted his name.

"Harry is going to be alone in his compartment for the rest of the journey," Hermione said, crossing her arms over her chest. "I'll put a barricade up in front of the compartment door if I have to."

But Blaise was closer, and quicker. He was already in front of Harry, preventing him from getting back into the compartment.

"Harry…" Blaise's voice was a study in seduction. "Why would you want to spend the trip all alone."

"Blaise," Draco said, laughing, "I give you fair warning. If you want to shag Harry, you'll be up against some stiff competition. Or is it long competition? Or is it long and stiff competition?"

"It's not funny, Malfoy!" Hermione was in no mood for Draco's lighthearted attitude. A muttered spell from Hermione caught Blaise off guard and knocked him to the floor, giving Harry just enough time to return to his compartment. Hermione then charmed the compartment door into a solid wooden barrier with no handle.

Ron wasted no time in grabbing the Slytherin Quidditch broom, and he raced down the hall with it.

"I know what he's about," shouted Blaise. "He wants to fly around to the window of Harry's compartment. Well, I've got my own broom!"

Draco was wondering if this type of flying broke any of the rules. "Blaise, I don't know if you're allowed to fly alongside the Hogwarts Express."

"Then tell me," Blaise asked, a challenge in his voice, "can you find any regulations that make it illegal to fly alongside the train?"

Draco thought for a moment and had to admit to himself that he knew of no such regulations.

"Well, I think it's a grey area, legally speaking."

Blaise punched his fist in the air and let loose with a cry of victory as he tore down the corridor.

"Grey area, here I come!"

Draco turned toward Hermione, took measure of her stone-serious expression, and then dissolved into laughter.

"Granger," he managed to say, still laughing, "would you be so kind as to transform your wooden barrier back into a normal compartment door so that we can watch the proceedings outside Potter's window?"

Hermione sullenly complied, revealing the sight of Ron flying just outside Harry's window, a bouquet of wild flowers in his hand. Harry had the window open and was saying something to Ron when Blaise, on his own broom, flew into view with an even larger bouquet of hothouse roses.

"Malfoy!" Hermione was becoming more irritated by the minute. "Stop laughing! We have to figure out how to get those two back inside."

Draco made a superhuman effort to adopt a serious demeanor. "Yes, of course we do. Do you have any suggestions?"

Their discussion was interrupted by a hag-like person with hair that looked like a mop head. "Trolley witch! Step aside, please. I'm delivering some pastries Mr. Harry Potter ordered." Hermione and Draco moved to let the trolley witch enter Harry's compartment.

"My first instinct," Hermione was saying to Draco, "is to use a spell that attaches a rope to their brooms, and then try to drag Ron and Zabini back into the train. If we have any rope, I could start by using a charm on it."

"That cupboard over there"—Draco was pointing toward a broom cupboard—"is where they keep supplies like rope and such."

Hermione opened the cupboard to discover the _real_ trolley witch sitting on the floor of the cupboard, bound and gagged and struggling furiously.

"It's the trolley witch!" Hermione cried. "What's she doing in here all tied up if we saw her in…" Hermione made a desperate little squeek. "Oh my God!"

By the time Hermione and Draco got back to Harry's compartment, a small crowd had gathered in front of the door: Pansy, along with other sixth- and seventh-year students, and even more worrying, a number of first- and second-year students. Peering over their heads, Hermione and Draco could see Seamus Finnigan, having discarded his grey wig and trolley-witch disguise, wooing Harry yet again.

Draco turned to Hermione. "Not to throw a damper on your efforts, Granger, but it's only a matter of time before Greg eats his way out of the hard caramel, and Boot won't be far behind."

"Hey, Finnigan," one of the older boys yelled. "You can't have Harry all to yourself!"

Wands were now drawn, and Seamus and some other boys from Gryffindor were now hurling a few warning shots at the Slytherin boys. Random flashes of light flew through the air, punctuated by occasional shouting.

"Hey, Slytherin slime bucket, you actually think Harry would look your way?"

"Harry doesn't want some goody-two-shoes Gryffindor idiot. He wants a _real_ man."

The first years and second years were getting scared and a few were screaming, although Pansy was doing her best to keep the younger students under control. Hermione realized, reluctantly, that the situation on the Hogwarts Express was tipping toward a full-scale panic.

It was at times like this when Hermione was willing to square herself with uncomfortable truths. She had to acknowledge the source of the mass mania, and it was either disturbing or intriguing, she couldn't decide which. What Aunt Petunia called the "unearthly change" in Harry had occurred around his sixteenth birthday, and yet this was not so much a change as an unveiling. The basic elements had always been there, Hermione realized, although they had been obscured before. The features of Harry's face had a perfection and a symmetry that defied reason, almost too exquisitely beautiful to be part of the natural world. His hair had been wild when Harry had first started at Hogwarts, sticking up at strange angles, although this was no longer the case. Yet the degree of curl that was natural to Harry's silky, black hair had never changed. His hair was neither completely straight nor very wavy, but somewhere in between, and now it softly framed the perfect features and large, haunting green eyes that had the male students at Hogwarts acting like little boys falling out of a tree to get attention. The lithe, perfect body that made Harry such a success as a Seeker was something he could parade without ever being offensive, and after his recent metamorphosis, Harry was a walking cyclone of sexual attraction.

Yet there were elements of Harry's transformation Hermione didn't understand because their source lay in Harry's childhood. The essence of the havoc Harry was now creating was the combination of his physical form with his inner attitude. Those who are gifted with great beauty most often exude confidence, even conceit. Harry, having grown up with relations who despised him, had long developed an attitude of inner reflection and concentration, as a defense against their hostility. Most people would be puzzled if a creature of such blinding beauty were reserved and reflective by nature. Harry's astonishing beauty and his habitual attitude of quiet concentration combined to create an air of mystery.

The chaos on the Hogwarts Express pulled Hermione out of her thoughts. Hermione and Pansy decided to split up, with Pansy leading all of the younger students to the back carriages of the train and Hermione remaining toward the front with Harry. Having accomplished her task, Pansy returned to help keep Harry in his compartment. When Pansy returned, Hermione was trying to negotiate with Seamus in an attempt to get him back into his own compartment, and Draco was engaged in similar talks with some of the other sixth- and seventh-year boys. While Hermione and Draco were thus distracted, one of the boys sneaked into the compartment and nicked Hermione's notebook of culinary spells.

Pansy unwisely pulled out her wand and issued an outright threat. "All of you get back to your compartments now! The only three who should be out in the corridor are the three prefects, who are Draco, Granger and me."

The boy who was holding Hermione's notebook was rifling through the pages. "Let's see… spaghetti… caramel…" The boy aimed his wand at Pansy.

_"Tapiocus!"_

Pansy was instantly encased in a gigantic sealed container filled with tapioca pudding. There were air holes in the lid of the huge container, and the pudding came to a level just below Pansy's chin.

Before Hermione and Draco could even contemplate rescuing Pansy, they looked at each other in shock as they felt the entire passenger carriage they were standing in tipping to the right. They ran toward the window, where Harry was frantically signaling to someone outside the train.

Harry had no choice but to explain. "It's official. Ron and Zabini have taken leave of their senses."

Looking out the window, Hermione and Draco saw Ron flying at the front of the train, near the engine. He was pointing to an enormous metal frame that had been attached to the right side of the train's engine. The frame carried an astounding variety of floral wreaths, and in the center were the words "Ron loves Harry 4ever." A little higher in the air was Blaise, who was pointing to a floral display of his own with a similar romantic message, and it was also attached to the right side of the train's engine.

"You bloody maniacs," Draco yelled out the window. "Get those things off the engine. The whole train is tipping!"

Blaise, recognizing the problem, shouted, "We can't. The spell is permanent."

Then Ron smiled and shouted, "We'll attach two more to the left side. That way the train won't tip anymore."

Ron and Blaise flew out of sight, and momentarily the train righted itself. Hermione and Draco felt the passenger carriage they were in become level again. Ron and Blaise were now flying on the right side of the train again and gave a thumbs-up sign to Hermione and Draco. However, a further problem now made itself known. A constant stream of sparks was flying from the tracks due to the increased weight of the engine, threatening to start a fire.

Draco leaned out of the window once more and shouted, "Try to stop the train wheels from grinding down so hard on the tracks."

Hoping to attend to other matters, Hermione and Draco returned to the chaos in the corridor, where a smiling first-year girl greeted them.

"We're helping Pansy get out! I know we were supposed to stay in the back carriages, but we heard Pansy shouting, and when we came, she was in a great big jar of tapioca pudding. But we got the lid off and she's getting out!"

Indeed, Pansy was struggling to climb over the top of the huge container of pudding that had been her temporary home. After strenuous effort, she landed on the ground. She was free, albeit covered from head to foot with tapioca pudding.

"Potter is a menace!" Pansy screamed. "He must be stopped!" She shook her fist, inadvertently flinging bits of tapioca pudding at everyone around her.

Draco was the soul of common sense. "Now, Pansy, you can't blame all these blokes, can you? You have to admit, Potter is rather fetching these days."

Pansy's face reddened in fury. "Fetching?" Pansy sputtered. "Fetching? !" Her voice could be heard from the front of the train all the way to the back carriages. "He's fucking dangerous!"

"Pansy, dearest," Draco said in a soothing tone, "Potter's not dangerous. He's just… high-spirited."

Pansy groaned in anguish. Hermione, trying hard not to smile, pointed her wand at Pansy. _"Scourgify!"_ The spell cleansed Pansy of all traces of pudding.

Pansy, calming down, bit out the words, "Thank you, Granger."

"Certainly, Parkinson," Hermione replied.

"I'll be in the back carriages, checking on the first and second years." With that, Pansy stomped down the corridor.

Outside the train, Ron and Blaise were attempting to lighten the pressure that the train wheels were putting on the tracks, and they started with a spell that would lift the train a fraction of an inch. Unfortunately, neither one of them was all that familiar with the spell, and instead of lifting the train a fraction of an inch, the spell lifted the entire Hogwarts Express, from the engine to the back carriage, up off of the tracks completely and into the air, high above rooftops and treetops. At an altitude that would be normal for a small Muggle aircraft, the Hogwarts Express hurtled forward into space.

No sooner had Pansy arrived in the back carriage, than a smiling group of first years, their faces bright with excitement, greeted her and alerted Pansy to the train's flight pattern high in the air.

"Pansy! Does the Hogwarts Express do this every year? It's terribly exciting, don't you think?"

"Do what every year?" Pansy asked, but the first years were motioning her over to the window. Pansy looked out and at first saw only clear blue sky, then looked down and saw the tiny houses and trees far below. A stunning realization dawned on her: the ever-dependable Hogwarts Express was flying through mid-air.

Hermione saw Pansy running back toward Harry's compartment, screaming blue murder all along the way.

"Granger! The whole damn train is flying through the air!"

"We know, Parkinson. Malfoy is shouting some instructions to Ron and Zabini. They're using some spells to try to get the train back down on the tracks. I've been trying to convince some of the other boys to get back to their compartments."

As if to illustrate the failure of Hermione's negotiation efforts, many of the older boys were running in and out of compartments, looking for brooms.

"It's no fair!" one of the boys shouted. "Weasley and Zabini attached great big mounds of flowers for Harry to the engine."

"I can do better than that," another one shouted back. "I know spells for fireworks!"

Boys were now scrambling toward the compartment windows, and the state of affairs degenerated into utter pandemonium.

"Get out of the way, Gryffindor git. Exploding Snap is the only fireworks you could manage. I can write Harry's name across the sky."

"This is war, Slytherin scum!" came the cheerful reply.

Harry was at the door of his compartment, pleading. "No, really, you guys. I don't want flowers. I don't want fireworks."

Harry's entreaties were to no avail. A number of boys had flown out of the train carriages and were already in the sky. Those who were still on the train were using spells to create large floral displays with messages of undying love and placing them up and down the corridors and inside the compartments.

Hermione rushed toward the window of Harry's compartment, where Draco was still collaborating with Ron and Blaise in an attempt to get the Hogwarts Express back down on its tracks. Draco had his head out the window, and he was shouting instructions he was reading from a book of spells. Then Draco and Hermione saw the displays of skywriting begin to appear, surrounded by fireworks.

· · · · · · Terry Boot loves Harry like no one else can

· · · · · · Urquhart is an idiot

· · · · · · Harry, you'll have more fun with an Irishman

Not far from its final destination, and after intense efforts by Ron and Blaise, the Hogwarts Express miraculously made a slow, graceful descent and reattached itself to its tracks. Hermione, Draco and Harry all breathed a sigh of relief, but then heard the strange sound of sawing coming from the ceiling of the compartment. A metal saw protruded from the ceiling and was working its way around in a circle. An entire circular portion of the ceiling was being sawed out, and then, amid a great crash of plaster, Greg Goyle and the circular portion of the ceiling arrived on the floor of the compartment in front of Harry. Greg sported scrapes and bruises from his recent expedition through the attic area above the Hogwarts Express compartments. His shirt was torn apart everywhere, revealing most of his chest and making it more obvious that he could likely win the year's British weightlifting championship. Greg got down on one knee and took Harry's hand in a grand gesture.

"Nothing could ever keep me from you Harry," he said, just as the Hogwarts Express was pulling into Hogsmeade Station.

Professor McGonagall and Professor Sprout were on the platform as the train pulled in, ready to greet the students on the Hogwarts Express, and the two looked flabbergasted as they saw, attached to the engine of the train, four huge metal frames holding a legion of floral bouquets and some very romantic messages for one Harry Potter.

The weight of all the flowers was finally too much. The attaching spells that Ron and Blaise had used turned out to be stronger than the metal parts of the train itself. The frames came crashing down onto the platform, taking a sizable piece of metal from either side of the engine with them and scattering flowers absolutely everywhere.


	3. Death by Treacle Fudge

**Title: **Congenital Magnetism  
**Author: **Ascyltus  
**Completed: **Yes  
**Summary: **At the end of his fifth year, Harry displays his effortless knack for landing himself in problematic situations. Luckily, Harry begins to develop some unusual abilities that he has inherited by virtue of being one-quarter Veela. Only Draco Malfoy seems to be immune to Harry's newly found powers.  
**Disclaimer: **This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Chapter 3: Death by Treacle Fudge**

The Hogwarts Express, having just pulled into Hogsmeade Station, presented the observer with a new and unexpected feature: four enormous metal frames bearing a mass of floral arrangements, the metal frames being precariously attached to the train engine. The two stunned observers, Professor McGonagall and Professor Sprout, took note of a few of the more memorable messages contained within the floral displays.

· · · · · · · · · Harry's as hot as a firecracker

· · · · · · · · · You'll have the best time in the sack with your best mate, Harry

· · · · · · · · · Blaise is Harry's Latin lover

· · · · · · · · · Harry, there's a divinity that shapes your ends

Even this inappropriate state of affairs was short-lived. The metal frames proved too heavy for the engine sides they were attached to, but instead of falling off of the engine, they were held so firmly by attaching charms that the metal frames tore off large sections of the engine as they crashed onto the platform of Hogsmeade Station. Professors McGonagall and Sprout saw no alternative but to board the train in order to ascertain the source of the train's irregular manner of arrival this year. Entering the frontmost train carriage, the two Hogwarts faculty members were met by Hermione, Harry, Draco and Greg.

Hermione's belief in her ability to resolve social conflict was irrepressible. "Professor McGonagall, Professor Sprout… we can explain everything."

Professor Sprout's reply was not heartening.

"Somehow, I doubt that, Miss Granger."

Professor McGonagall cast Hermione a stern look.

"As far as the floral displays that were attached to the engine"—McGonagall's lips, which were thin under normal circumstances, were now pressed together to form a single straight line—"or shall I say, the scattered flowers and passionate messages addressed to Harry that now cover the entire platform…" She scowled at Harry, who cringed under her glare. "We'll reserve that matter for later. For now, will someone kindly tell me"—Professor McGonagall gazed up at the ceiling—"why there is a large circular hole in the ceiling of this compartment"—McGonagall now stared straight at Greg Goyle—"and why you, Mr. Goyle, are standing on a circular piece of plaster that seems to match the size of the hole in the ceiling?"

Greg coughed and fidgeted, but he finally found his nerve.

"Harry's the most beautiful creature I've ever laid my eyes on, and I had to let him know how I felt."

McGonagall listened in shock, then spoke, her voice a small whisper.

"Merlin help us."

"I'd been reading a poem to Harry," Greg continued, more confident now. "I knew he wanted to hear the rest of it."

"It was a nice selection," Harry ventured, trying to make the situation appear more reasonable. "It was a Shakespeare sonnet. Something about—"

"Thank you, Harry! That will do," Professor McGonagall snapped.

Greg went on with his story. "I escaped, but I couldn't get into Harry's compartment because the door was magically locked, so I had to get in through the ceiling."

Professor Sprout now joined the interrogation. "Escaped? Escaped from what?"

Greg looked down at his ankles, which still had strands of caramel candy wrapped around them, although his ankles were no longer bound together. He went on to explain.

"After Draco's _Immobulus_ spell wore off, I had to get one of the first year students to melt the hard caramel around my ankles with one of those little warming candles that the trolley witch uses."

Professor Sprout made an exasperated noise. "Hard caramel? As in hard caramel candy?"

Greg nodded.

"And how did you manage to get your ankles bound together with hard caramel candy?"

"I had to do it, Professor Sprout," Hermione explained. "Goyle scooped Harry up in his arms and was carrying him all over the train. I had to do something, so I cast a spell that bound him using hard caramel candy."

Draco's smooth, unruffled tone of voice drew everyone's attention at once. "Granger's getting rather expert with these culinary spells. She had her Weasley boyfriend wrapped up in spaghetti, although he chewed his way out."

Ron's temporary confinement by means of spaghetti was new information to almost everyone present, and everyone within earshot waited in anticipation for Draco to explain further.

"I don't blame Granger, of course," Draco continued. "Weasley was ready to shag Harry on the spot. You know, I really did think Weasley was straight until now. I suppose he's still drawn more to the ladies, what with the various girls he's pursued up until now. Let's see, there's Padma Patil, Granger—oh yes, and that lovely part-Veela girl from France. But still, it doesn't preclude Weasley broadening his horizons, and how better to accomplish that than with Potter. You know, I'm convinced that Potter has that rare physical allure that crosses all boundaries. Greg Goyle was the last bloke I would have expected to see trying to undress Potter, but there he was, reaching his hand around in back of Potter and—"

"—Mr. Malfoy, will you hold your tongue? !" Professor McGonagall could bear no more, and her decorum failed her, something that happened only when she had to deal with Draco Malfoy. She looked at Hermione, straightening herself.

"And how many other boys are behaving toward Harry in this manner?"

"It does sound strange, but… all of them… at least the sixth and seventh years. Pansy Parkinson was able to keep the younger students in the back carriages of the train for most of the trip. Oh"—she stopped short, glancing at Draco—"all the older boys are acting like this around Harry, that is, with the exception of Malfoy."

The two professors exchanged deeply worried looks, and then McGonagall continued questioning Hermione. "And can you also explain the unusual light show that surrounds Harry? He seems to have his very own Aurora Borealis that travels about with him. Why is Harry surrounded by large flying colonies of…" McGonagall made a motion with her hand as though to swat away a flying insect, "… brightly-lit pieces of multi-colored confetti?"

Draco piped up with yet another disconcerting contribution. "You see them too, Professor! And we thought the girls were hallucinating—you know, like those unfortunate people in the Middle Ages, the ones who ate bread with ergot fungus and then indulged in all manner of dodgy behavior."

Hermione intervened. "I think what Malfoy is trying to say is that none of the boys see the clouds of sparkly glitter that we do."

Professor Sprout just shook her head while Professor McGonagall took a deep breath, and the two decided to forge ahead.

"Let's see what shape the rest of the train is in. Hermione, Harry, Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Goyle… will you please accompany us? And Harry"—McGonagall looked over at Harry as though regarding a dangerous animal—"I want you to remain between Professor Sprout and me at all times. Please do not approach the other students."

Walking through the train corridor proved to be a daunting task at this point, as there were bouquets of flowers—every one of them addressed to Harry—arranged in every available location. McGonagall and Sprout maintained dour expressions as they read some of the more risqué messages from sixth- and seventh-year boys of all four houses. Having waded through the first few little hillocks of flower bouquets, the small group led by McGonagall and Sprout encountered many of the older students, who were now coming out of their compartments, bags in hand, expecting to get off the train. The moment they saw Harry, a few of the boys—all smiles and lust-filled looks—moved closer to Harry and started a bit of chit-chat.

"You know, Harry, when we get to the castle—"

McGonagall and Sprout both had their wands out. "Gentlemen," Professor McGonagall ordered, "don't even dream about it."

The boys backed away, leaving McGonagall and Sprout with a better view of the area further down the corridor. This was when the two professors first noticed a clear glass container big enough for a person to fit inside, which was filled with a pasty yellowish-white substance. Approaching the huge glass container to examine the bizarre object, Professor McGonagall closed her eyes and pressed her hand to her forehead.

"What. Is. This?"

"I'll tell you what it is," Pansy said, emerging from the gaggle of students. "One of these idiot boys"—she jerked her thumb at a group of male students behind her—"nicked Granger's notebook of spells… cookbook spells or kitchen spells or whatever." Pansy was still fuming. "Professor, I was trying get these maniacs to stop chasing after Potter and go back into their compartments, and the boy who had Granger's notebook cast a spell which trapped me inside that container over there, which is filled with"—Pansy shuddered—"filled with tapioca pudding."

There were still large amounts of goopy pudding coming over the top of the container and rolling onto the floor, apparently the side of the container where Pansy managed to climb out. Terry Boot grabbed a spoon and sampled some of the pudding.

"Not bad. My compliments to the chef."

Terry walked up to Hermione, bringing him within touching distance of Harry.

"So this is your recipe, Granger?"

"Mr. Boot," McGonagall interrupted, "please keep your distance from Mr. Potter."

"What's the big deal?" Terry asked.

"The big deal?" Hermione was incredulous. "Boot, you've spent this entire trip making the most outrageous sexual advances on Harry."

Terry glanced over at Harry. "Now why would I do that?"

"Are you blind?" Seamus piped up. "Because Harry's the hottest little item on the planet, that's why!"

Terry smiled, and then shrugged. "I guess everyone's entitled to an opinion."

He looked back at Harry, stifling a laugh. "I don't see the allure though."

Hermione grabbed a small bowl and spoon, looking like someone who had stumbled across a scientific breakthrough, and scooped some of the tapioca pudding into the bowl. She dashed over to Seamus and shoved the bowl and spoon into his hands.

"Try some of the pudding."

"I'm not that hungry right now—"

"Just shut up and try some of the damn tapioca pudding!"

Hermione's unusual outburst now had everyone's eyes riveted on her and Seamus, who just shrugged and ate the small bowl of pudding. Hermione grabbed Seamus's arm and brought him over in front of Harry. She kept a close eye on Seamus as she spoke.

"I believe you were saying just now that Harry was—oh, how did you phrase it?—the hottest little item on the planet."

"Come on, Hermione," Seamus protested, "I was just trying to be funny. You don't really think I'm trying to get into Harry's pants, do you?"

Hermione turned to Professor McGonagall and Professor Sprout with a look of triumph on her face. "You see? Harry has to be under a spell of some kind. Or maybe someone maliciously put a potion into something he ate or drank. But whatever the spell or potion is, there's something in tapioca pudding that counteracts it, although I don't know if the effect is permanent or temporary."

"Since Professor McGonagall is head of Gryffindor house," Professor Sprout said, "I'll do this myself. Ten points to Gryffindor for Hermione Granger's most welcome discovery."

"Yes, thank you, Hermione," McGonagall agreed. "There must be some ingredient in tapioca pudding which offsets the effects of the spell or potion which is afflicting Harry."

"Thank Merlin for small favors," Pansy muttered.

McGonagall sighed with great relief. "Can we now proceed to clean up this train? Hermione, Mr. Malfoy, Miss Parkinson, you three are prefects and I trust that you can supervise the efforts. Professor Sprout will be responsible for welcoming new students and guiding them to the castle."

McGonagall cast a wary look at the group of sixth and seventh year boys. "Hermione, will you see to it that all of the male students eat some tapioca pudding before leaving the train? After that please remove that container of pudding."

Professor McGonagall regarded Harry with an expression that was both sympathetic and appalled. "Harry, you will accompany me to the Headmaster's office." She paused, her brow furrowed with worry. "Why do you have such a talent for landing yourself in these… these… situations?"

"My theory," Draco said with a bright smile, "is that no one is quite as entertaining as Potter when he's slipping on banana peels."

"Mr. Malfoy"—Professor Sprout was not the least bit amused—"I'm sure we can do without your observations."

* º * º *

Minerva McGonagall, with Harry following behind, paused in front of the stone gargoyle guarding the Headmaster's Tower, and she repeated the password:

"Béchamel sauce."

McGonagall and Harry watched as the gargoyle jumped aside and the wall split in two, revealing the spiral staircase leading up to Dumbledore's office. The two of them approached the staircase, and Harry heard the sound of the wall behind them closing back up, but then McGonagall stopped Harry at the bottom of the staircase.

"You will wait here, Harry, while I confer with the Headmaster. I will come back for you when Professor Dumbledore is ready to speak with you."

Professor McGonagall ascended the spiral staircase, lifted the door's brass knocker and let it fall. Harry watched as the office door opened and McGonagall entered, closing the door behind her. In less than five minutes, Professor McGonagall opened the office door and motioned for Harry to ascend the staircase and enter.

Harry reached the door of Dumbledore's office and McGonagall said, "The Headmaster found it necessary to attend a faculty meeting before speaking to you. He just left via Portkey. I must attend the same meeting myself, so if you please, Harry, would you wait here in the Headmaster's office until he returns?"

"But what am I supposed to—?"

"Please, Harry. Professor Dumbledore's instructions for you were to wait for him here in his office." She opened the polished oak door for Harry to enter. "Make yourself at home," she said closing the door from the outside and leaving Harry alone in the Headmaster's office.

Harry had no choice but to entertain himself, so he took the opportunity to examine some of the items in Dumbledore's office. Some of the mechanisms seated on small tables had moving parts he hadn't remembered before. He gazed at one fascinating instrument as its internal metal parts cycled through a series of operations. Harry glanced at the Sorting Hat behind the Headmaster's desk. No, he didn't want to start another discussion like the one he'd had in second year and listen to the Sorting Hat tell him how he was _so_ well suited for Slytherin house.

Harry strolled over to the other side of the office, noticing that Fawkes's red and gold plumage looked especially beautiful today, and then he spied some crystal phials arranged on a shelf. A small sign at the top of the shelf read: Stored Memories for Current Research. Looking around, Harry spotted a Pensieve on a nearby table.

I'll just take a quick look, he thought. It couldn't hurt to take a little peek at the labels on the phials, could it?

There were only a few phials, and by the looks of the labels, the contents promised to be terribly uninteresting.

· · · · · · · · · House-Elves' Inspection of Kitchen Inventory: April, 1996

· · · · · · · · · Groundskeeper's Dietary Observations for Blast-Ended Skrewts

Harry froze when he read the label on the last crystal phial.

· · · · · · · · · Narcissa Malfoy: June 22, 1996

The sheer force of raw, unholy curiosity descended from the heavens and took Harry captive. What could Narcissa Malfoy's stored memory possibly be doing in Professor Dumbledore's office? Harry looked at the date again. These were recent memories at that, just after the Battle of the Department of Mysteries. Overwhelmed by curiosity, Harry was in front of the Pensieve, pouring out the contents of the phial. He leaned over, and as his face broke the silver surface, he felt his feet leave the floor of Dumbledore's office…

Narcissa Malfoy stood waiting in a stark foyer. She smoothed her hair down, but her hand was trembling as she did so. Nothing other than a single rough-hewn table relieved the grim appearance of the little waiting area. A narrow window graced the wall of the foyer, revealing the night sky and a few stars. Narcissa's sister, Bellatrix, entered and offered her sister a frosty greeting.

"Don't expect favors from the Dark Lord. Your husband's recent efforts on our behalf were a pathetic failure. The Dark Lord is livid."

"But loyal service," Narcissa offered. "Surely loyalty and faithful service count for something."

Bellatrix's high-pitched laugh grated on Narcissa. "You fool! Incompetence counts for nothing. The Dark Lord has only contempt for Lucius. He told me himself that if Lucius received the Dementor's Kiss, it would be no great loss for our side." Bellatrix sneered in triumph as she said, "I think the Dark Lord's exact words were, 'Just another disposable moron, indistinguishable from so many that I've had to deal with. Let the Dementor's have at him.'"

Bellatrix straightened herself. Her eyes bored into Naricssa.

"How fortunate for you that the Dark Lord is willing to offer you a chance to redeem yourself. Come with me, Narcissa."

Bellatrix led a shaken Narcissa Malfoy to the basement level of the building, where Voldemort was waiting in a cavernous room. The place was lit by torches, and arranged in the center were a table and a high-backed chair where Voldemort sat, with an empty chair on the other side of the table.

Narcissa had never seen such a perfect portrait of madness as the vision that met her eyes in this bare room with its uninviting stone walls. Voldemort stared at Narcissa with a look of profound insanity. The madness seemed to roll off of him in waves, like heat. Voldemort's red eyes fairly vibrated in their sockets as he spoke.

"Your loser husband has failed once too many times, it would seem. It wouldn't surprise me in the least if your equally worthless son does the same and proves to be the same waste of space as Lucius, deserving of the same ignominious end, rotting in Azkaban."

Narcissa was performing mental calculations, trying to determine how to mollify this monster.

"I will offer you an extraordinary kindness, that is, a way in which you may once again enter into my favor. However, you must be willing to forsake your idiot husband. He has crossed me once too many times. You see, his recent mission at the Department of Mysteries was to be restitution for an outrageous breach of faith which he committed four years ago."

As Voldemort remembered what he considered to be Lucius's traitorous act, his face first twitched and then contorted into hideous grimaces as he was overcome with quiet fury.

"Sixteen years ago," Voldemort continued, "not long before Harry Potter robbed me of my corporeal form, I entrusted my diary to Lucius, believing that he would do everything in his power to keep it safe. However, fours years ago, the slippery wretch betrayed my trust so completely that I would have been justified in killing him."

An involuntary shudder coursed through Narcissa, but she made a supreme effort to control her countenance as Voldemort went on.

"That diary was valuable beyond your imagining. It brought me a step closer to immortality. Yet Lucius treated it as though it were an expendable prop to be used as a practical joke. He slipped it into one of the Weasley girl's textbooks to cause her mischief. I think Lucius did it because he maintains a ridiculous petty rivalry with the girl's father at the Ministry of Magic. To think! My magical diary wound up in the girl's backpack—in her stupid _backpack_—and Lucius's traitorous actions gave Harry Potter the opportunity to destroy the diary, which Potter did."

Voldemort's clenched his hands, and it seemed as though his red eyes were spinning in circles. Narcissa was becoming alarmed, although her face betrayed nothing.

"To think that a piece of my immortal destiny"—Voldemort had risen from his chair and was shaking his fist—"was used for a prank—like a goddamn whoopee cushion!"

Narcissa, who was from pureblood wizarding stock, had no idea what Voldemort was referring to.

"What kind of cushion?"

"Never mind"—Voldemort sat back down and waved his hand idly—"you'd have to grow up around Muggles to know about whoopee cushions."

Voldemort began to seethe again. "Lucius obviously thought I was dead, and wanted to dispose of an item that was associated with me. I'm sure he thought of it as incriminating evidence, since he was so eager to ingratiate himself with my enemies at the Ministry of Magic and cultivate an air of respectability. And in spite of all this, I showed him the undeserved kindness of allowing him one more chance to prove his usefulness." The snakelike slits that served as nostrils flared as best they could. "The disaster at the Department of Mysteries proved him useless and worthless."

Voldemort glared at Narcissa. "The slippery jackal has been living on borrowed time for the last four years as it is… and now his borrowed time has run out. I can replace the power of the diary, but his murder is a necessary step in that process." Voldemort held Narcissa's gaze. "I will kill Lucius while he is incarcerated in Azkaban, but I can only do it if you facilitate matters for me."

Narcissa moved not a hair, forced herself to maintain a hooded expression and betrayed not a single thought.

Voldemort rose and moved off to the side of the room where a large wooden room divider stood. He emerged from behind the divider pushing a large, elegant tea cart toward the table at which they were sitting. Narcissa was aware of little, high-pitched animal squeals. She saw a ceramic teapot and a tray with some type of dessert on the top shelf of the tea cart… and on the bottom shelf… not crediting her senses, Narcissa saw a large cage with a number of rats inside. Observing more closely, she saw that the inside of the cage was furnished with pillowed areas for resting, an area for play and recreation equipped with colorful treadmills and small toys, and last, a feeding area, although the food bowls were empty. As the situation became increasingly surreal, Narcissa watched in bewilderment as Voldemort served tea.

"One lump or two?"

"No sugar, thank you," Narcissa managed.

"And now"—Voldemort's red eyes gleamed—"the pièce de résistance. Treacle fudge!"

He paused, seeing the apprehensive look on Narcissa's face.

"Come now, Narcissa, you surely don't think I would poison you, do you? Your assistance will forever win you my esteem. Go ahead, choose one piece of treacle fudge and put it on my plate, and choose another one for yourself."

Narcissa did as she was told, and Voldemort wolfed down the small square of treacle fudge.

"Delicious! Now try yours."

Narcissa ate her square of treacle fudge and replied, "Yes, excellent, My Lord."

"As you might know," Voldemort began, rising from his chair, "one of the ingredients used in making treacle fudge is valerian. Normally, valerian has a calming effect and might even encourage sleep, like a cup of warm milk before bedtime. If means could be found to magnify its effects, valerian would act like the drug that Muggles call sleeping pills."

Voldemort now pulled out a small phial of liquid.

"This potion contains an activator that will magnify the effects of valerian thousands of times, but the activator will only function when it is triggered by a spell which I have devised. When this happens, the valerian will cause the same result as a massive overdose of what Muggles call barbiturates, a drug that slows down all bodily functions, and in the case of a massive overdose, causes the heart and other bodily functions to stop, ensuring sudden death."

He sprinkled the contents of the phial over all of the squares of treacle fudge remaining on the dessert tray, and then took a few of the squares and crumbled them over the food dishes in the rats' cage. The rats, eagerly awaiting their meal, consumed all of the treacle fudge, and then resumed their previous activities, playing contentedly in the recreation area of their cage.

"And now, the activation spell…"

Voldemort pointed his wand in the direction of the tea cart and muttered several words in Latin. All of the rats ceased moving.

"And you're certain," Narcissa ventured, "that the rats are not merely asleep?"

"Very admirable of you to be skeptical at first. Let's investigate more closely."

Voldemort set the teapot and dessert tray on the floor and moved the large rat cage onto the upper shelf of the tea cart. He removed the top of the cage, reached inside and grabbed one of the rats and held the motionless creature in the palm of his hand.

Not wishing to admit that Voldemort's devious scheme was successful, Narcissa said, "Perhaps it's only resting, My Lord."

"Then let me see if I can rouse it to activity."

He took the treadmill out of the cage, and then battered the obviously dead rat against the treadmill over and over again.

"Wake up, little rat! It's time for your nightly exercise!"

The rat exhibited not a single sign of life, so Voldemort continued with all the other ones in the cage, flinging the dead rats against the walls and floor, one after the other. He was down on his knees, gathering up a few rats and dangling them by the tails in front of Narcissa.

"Success! These rats are dead! THEY HAVE GONE BEYOND THE VEIL!"

Narcissa, wide-eyed, nodded her head in agreement.

"And you, Narcissa, will find means to visit Lucius in prison and deliver my treacle fudge to him. Tell him that it contains an ingredient that will enable Legilimency between the two of you so that you can give each other instructions. Tell him anything you like, just get him to eat the bloody treacle fudge!"

Voldemort's eyes started pulsing, alternately protruding from their sockets and then shrinking back. He emitted a low, crazed laugh. His behavior was veering toward outright insanity.

"Yes, Narcissa, you have contacts in the Ministry of Magic who can help you to arrange a visit with Lucius. You must begin trying to influence them in this matter. Lucius must pay with his life in order to recreate something with the same power as my diary, which he so treacherously threw into harms way. This will be poetic justice!"

Voldmemort was becoming more agitated and violent by the second. He picked up the rat cage and sent it crashing against the wall, his rage building. He lunged at the rat cage and pounded some more dents into it with his foot. He lifted the rat cage high above his head, glaring at Narcissa.

"NO MORE BACKPACKS!" He shouted this at the top of his lungs.

Voldemort marched up to the helpless Narcissa, nose-to-nose with her, dragging the rat cage with him.

"What was my precious diary doing in some idiot's backpack when I told Lucius to keep it safe? ! I created an object"—Voldemort grabbed the fragile ceramic teapot now—"infinitely more valuable than this teapot and he used it for a joke…" He was screaming now, clearly having taken leave of his senses. "My diary was no better than a doorstop to Lucius!" Voldemort threw the ceramic teapot against the wall, shattering it into a thousand pieces, and after that, he seized the dessert tray. "One of the most powerful artifacts in the history of wizardry and he treats it like a dishrag!"

Voldemort repeatedly slammed the dessert tray against the tea cart in hysterical fury, destroying both the dessert tray and the tea cart. When Voldemort grabbed a rat from the floor and shoved it in front of Narcissa's face, she dared not move out of her seat.

"Do you think this rat is dead? Do you? !"

"Yes, My Lord, it is most certainly dead."

Voldemort dropped onto his knees with the rat in his hands, howling in anguish. An agonized declaration tore from his throat: "This rat is not dead." He threw the rat on the floor, and then, using the mangled dessert tray, he battered the already dead rat with a dozen wild blows. "NOW IT'S DEAD!"

Voldemort looked up at Narcissa from where he was kneeling on the floor. His expression was sweet and wistful, his voice soft and dreamlike. "No one understands what hard work it is to make sure that something is dead."

Voldemort rose and stopped in front of Narcissa.

"Make preparations to set my plan into action. Go… now!"

Narcissa needed no further encouragement and exited. She paused, once outside, leaning against the stone wall, trembling. She spoke softly but clearly.

"This is not a well man."

Harry felt a hand on his shoulder, saw the face of Albus Dumbledore, felt himself being lifted up out of his surroundings and felt his feet landing back in Dumbledore's office.

"Sir, I hadn't meant to pry," Harry began, "really I hadn't. It's just that while I was waiting for you, I saw the crystal phial with Narcissa Malfoy's name on it. I was so surprised that you had a stored memory from a Death Eater that I—"

"Harry," Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling, "I was hoping that your curiosity would get the better of you. Never underestimate the value of curiosity. So much of what we call civilization would never have come about without it. The reason that I was hoping you would choose to view Narcissa's stored memory… Harry, you have so many good qualities, not the least of which is your generosity toward those you care for. I thought that by viewing Narcissa's memory of recent events, you might learn to extend that generosity in new directions."

Dumbledore's smile was gentle. "You know, you can be quite stubborn concerning preconceived notions you sometimes have about people. For example, it's inaccurate for you to refer to Narcissa as a Death Eater. She has never taken the Dark Mark, and neither has Draco, for that matter. As to why her stored memory is here in my office… she has been communicating with me over the course of the summer. After viewing the memory in this phial, I think you may be able to understand why."

"Voldemort wants to kill her husband, Lucius. But Narcissa might be motivated by fear," Harry suggested. "She might go along with Voldemort just to protect herself."

"Fear, yes." Dumbledore settled into the chair behind his desk, motioning for Harry to take a seat himself. "Fear is a potent force, is it not? And yet I can tell you that Narcissa has made an irrevocable decision to stand against Lord Voldemort. The fact that she has sought me out and established a dialogue with me might suggest that she is sincere, although one could raise the objection that she could be feigning sincerity in order to spy on me and on those in the Ministry of Magic. However, giving me access to her stored memory—especially, in view of what this memory reveals about Voldemort's plans—that is something no spy would ever do. She has even offered to allow me to question her under Veritaserum."

Harry's head shot up at this last piece of information.

"Then she's really turned against Voldemort," Harry said, as though not quite able to believe it.

"Which leads us, Harry, to the question of what force could provide stronger motivation than the fear of Voldemort's power. But you're living proof that there is such a force. If your mother had stepped aside in fear when Voldemort wanted to kill you, you wouldn't be here. Why did she do it?"

"She loved me too much to watch me die," Harry said. His eyes grew wider, and he understood how all of this might also apply to other people.

"I suppose it may sound strange," Dumbledore said, "when you hear the truth about Narcissa. It's something you don't often hear in this modern age of ours, but the truth is what it is." Dumbledore fixed his stare on Harry. "Narcissa fell in love with Lucius all those years ago—loved him more than anything in this world—and she never stopped loving him. To put it simply, Lucius is the only man she ever loved."

Dumbledore sat in amused silence, watching the wheels turning in Harry's head as he processed all of this novel information.

"Do you see, Harry, why it can be beneficial to set aside preconceived notions? I mean, on general principle."

"Yes, I think I understand." But Harry had another question. "Who else has seen this memory, sir—other than you and I?"

"Only Draco." The Headmaster laid his hand on Harry's shoulder. "Narcissa Malfoy is in a unique position to provide us with information and assistance in our struggle against Lord Voldemort, who is not aware of her communications with me. Only you, Draco and I have knowledge of the events you witnessed in the Pensieve, or of Narcissa's collaboration with me; it is of vital importance to all of us that you reveal none of this information to anyone else in order to safeguard Narcissa's position. The success of our efforts may depend on it. I know I can trust you, Harry."

"Of course, sir."

"Lord Voldemort has made his betrayal of Lucius public, however. You may, at some point, wish to talk about this with Draco, although I'm not certain how much he'll be comfortable telling you. And since we're speaking of circumstances that concern you and Draco… that brings me to the reason for our meeting today. Your trip on the Hogwarts Express was more complicated this year, as I understand."

Harry felt himself blushing and felt the blush turn deeper and deeper.

"Er, yeah. Hermione thinks it might be a spell, or even a potion. You know, someone who's trying to make my life more difficult. I guess that wouldn't be a novelty, would it?"

"Professor McGonagall spoke at greater length with Hermione before she met me at the faculty meeting… about some of the information you gave her that might shed light on your sudden…" Dumbledore smiled. "How should I put it? Your sudden popularity. I hope you don't mind us having asked Hermione."

"No, of course not," Harry said. "I want to find out what's going on as much as anyone. More than anyone."

"The clues are puzzling," Dumbledore said, his fingertips touching to form the apex of a triangle. "Around the time of your sixteenth birthday, your Aunt Petunia began to see the same phenomenon that the female students here do, as well as Professor McGonagall and Professor Sprout. They all see a strange glow coming from your skin and colorful sparks or tiny bits of glitter flying off your body.

"In fact, Hermione, Professor McGonagall and Professor Sprout reported something else that the other female students didn't, probably because they were with you for a greater length of time. They said that after about ten minutes of being with you, it became difficult for them to concentrate… on anything. That is, they had difficulty remembering what they had just been thinking or even what they were going to say next. They told me it wasn't an unpleasant feeling… but not conducive to problem solving. I shouldn't be surprised if all the female students experience the same effect around you. And as far as the effects on the male students… that seems even less conducive to problem solving."

The Headmaster gave Harry a probing look.

"That leaves us with Draco Malfoy, who is the only student who is unaffected. Hermione told Professor McGonagall about some unusual events you experienced when you first saw Draco on the train today, but I'm not sure I understood everything. I'd like you to tell me about that in your own words."

"All right. When I saw Malfoy at the beginning of the trip, my heart started beating faster and faster, until it was pounding. Then I felt fine threads touching my skin, all over my body. When I moved my arm or my leg—just to see what happened—I felt the threads pulling in the direction of where Malfoy was standing. I'm sure he felt something similar because he had an odd look on his face while it was happening."

Harry didn't bother telling the Headmaster the part about the entire world and everyone in it coming to a complete standstill while all of this was happening. That was _too_ weird to share with anyone else.

"So do you think Hermione's right, sir? Is it a spell of some kind?"

"I'm not sure, Harry. I think I will have to confer with some of my colleagues in France who may have more expertise in these matters than I do. In any case, we will have to begin working on some temporary solutions. You may be wondering about the faculty meeting I just attended. It was a potion-making session headed by Professor Snape for the purpose of developing individual potions for all of the male members of the faculty to counteract any magical force that affects romantic attraction. The potions are effective only because Professor Snape created unique potions for each individual based on their history, an analysis of their blood, and so forth. Obviously, this wouldn't be feasible for the entire student population.

"And that is why, Harry, I would like you to collaborate with someone who has some expertise with potions, and create a potion that would at least serve as a temporary counteragent. If this is successful, you could attend class with other students as you always have. Unfortunately, Professor Snape's teaching schedule will not allow him to collaborate with you himself. Of course, there are a number of students—your friend, Hermione, and Terry Boot, for example—who have some talent for potion making. However, I'm afraid it would be impossible for them to collaborate with you and maintain any degree of concentration… for all the reasons we have been discussing. That leaves Draco Malfoy."

Harry's face fell. "Malfoy?"

"His background in Potions is excellent, but more to the point, he's the only student who is not experiencing the disconcerting effects your presence seems to trigger. Not only that…" Dumbledore gave Harry a piercing look, "… the unique events which you described concerning when you first saw Draco on the train this morning… they might offer a clue as to a possible solution."

Dumbledore sighed. "Try to cooperate with Draco, Harry. You've partnered with him in Potions class before. Beyond that, Narcissa's stored memory gives you some insight into her change of loyalty—and Draco's change of loyalty. He has turned against Lord Voldemort as surely as his mother has. Please, Harry, it would be more diplomatic for you not to discuss the events in Narcissa's stored memory with Draco until he mentions them himself." The Headmaster searched Harry's eyes. "Promise me that you won't use the information you have learned in order to humiliate Draco—that you won't use the knowledge to behave in a mean-spirited way toward him."

Harry had a resigned look on his face and slumped in his seat.

"Of course, sir. I mean, I guess it's not a bad thing that Malfoy's not on Voldemort's side any more."

The sound of the brass knocker falling against the office door made Harry jump.

"I think that would be Professor Snape." Dumbledore rose from his chair. "I asked him to join us."

Dumbledore opened the door and Severus Snape swept in, his robes billowing around him. Snape stopped and turned to confront Harry. He looked at Harry as though he were viewing the proven cause of every calamity and affliction that befalls the world.

"Mr. Potter," Snape intoned in the same manner as one would say, "There's been a major earthquake."

"You will kindly meet with Mr. Malfoy and me in my office tomorrow morning at nine o'clock. I will arrange facilities and supplies whereby the two of you may work on potions independently from the other students. I will offer advice and correction as needed."

"For the time being," Dumbledore added, "I don't think it will be necessary for you to attend other classes." He picked up some papers and leafed through them. "Your marks in your other classes have been quite satisfactory, Harry."

"Thank you, sir."

Dumbledore looked further down on the page as he said, "And your marks in Potions—"

"—have been abysmal," Snape finished. "I was prepared to suggest Remedial Potions this year. However, the present"—Snape closed his eyes in pain—"situation will offer Mr. Potter an opportunity for desperately needed improvement in Potions."

Snape's eyes widened as he examined Harry.

"How do you manage it, Mr. Potter? Every time I think that you couldn't possibly attain greater heights in disrupting the operations of this school, you prove me wrong."

Snape lifted his head upwards, eyes closed.

"You are a walking catastrophe."


	4. Stir Potion Widdershins

**Title: **Congenital Magnetism  
**Author: **Ascyltus  
**Completed: **Yes  
**Summary: **At the end of his fifth year, Harry displays his effortless knack for landing himself in problematic situations. Luckily, Harry begins to develop some unusual abilities that he has inherited by virtue of being one-quarter Veela. Only Draco Malfoy seems to be immune to Harry's newly found powers.  
**Disclaimer: **This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Chapter 4: Stir Potion Widdershins**

Draco Malfoy sat on a grassy knoll at the edge of Hogwarts Lake before dawn and waited for the sun to rise on a shattered world. The familiar world that he and his parents had always inhabited, held together by certainties about magical and Muggle societies—all of it was in ruins. Draco thought about the wretched piece of scum his family had put their faith in, the madman who was now plotting to kill his father in prison. His mother's stored memory, which Narcissa had shared with him, had convinced Draco that he and his mother could expect nothing but hostility and ingratitude from Voldemort.

"Dark Lord like bloody hell!" Draco muttered to himself. "I'll never think of him as anything but an evil-minded fuck."

The more he thought about Voldemort cooking up a recipe for treacle fudge to kill his father with, the more he wished to see Voldemort die in some messy fashion. Draco had allowed Voldemort's dogmas about wizarding purity to hold sway over him, and look where it had gotten him. More to the point, look where it had gotten his father. Draco watched helplessly as his father did his level best to serve Voldemort, only to be discarded like a used tissue. Far from rewarding his father's loyalty, Voldemort did nothing but fume about his stinking diary. How could Draco's father have known that Lord Shithead had turned it into some type of experiment? To accomplish what? To become immortal or some such nonsense.

Melancholy stole over Draco. His father was an honorable man who had made all the wrong choices. There was no clear, obvious path ahead for Draco. He would have to invent his own methods as he went. Draco regarded Hogwarts Castle, remembering his private conversation with Dumbledore the evening before. The Headmaster was full of ideas Draco had never considered until now: mixing the magical and Muggle worlds, harmony between the two and mutually beneficial exchange. But then, Draco remembered that Dumbledore had the audacity to insist that he collaborate with Harry Potter in order to develop a potion that would alleviate the effects of whatever stupid spell was afflicting Potter at the moment… oh, that's right, all the male students were trying to seduce him and shag him silly.

None of that is my fault, Draco thought. Why me? Why do I have to be the one to work on the project with Potter?

Dumbledore was kind enough to explain. The female students found that Potter's skin threw off a glow, as well as little sparkly things, that annihilated their powers of concentration. On top of that, Draco was the only male student who was unaffected by the unstoppable sexual attraction Potter was radiating. Draco had suggested to Dumbledore that perhaps he was the only male student with any sense. The Headmaster had smiled indulgently and told Draco that his comment was unkind, and to please adopt a cooperative attitude toward Potter. Draco bowed to the inevitable. Today, he admitted to himself, it was off to a private chamber in the Hogwarts dungeons to launch into a potion-making project with Potter. Draco contemplated the trying day ahead. A Potions project with Potter. Oh, what fun.

Sitting at the edge of the lake, Draco scrutinized the eastern sky as the color of a small area of the sky altered. He looked across the water at the low wooded mountains beyond the eastern shore of the lake. He noticed a pale spot in the sky, just above one of the lowest hills, and then watched as the pale area grew. Draco observed in quiet awe as the magic of sunrise revealed the many-shaded green colors of bog plants and moss that, until now, were hidden by black and darkest grey. The deep green of the high woods and the softer green of the rough pastures were becoming plain. The advancing light presented Draco with the finest gift he could think of: the verdant Scottish Highlands. Best of all, the dominant hue was the color Draco had always loved beyond all others: green. The explosion of green in a profusion of shades was everywhere transforming the landscape. Then without warning—

_Harry._

The name sneaked into Draco's consciousness of its own accord, and it whispered through the green trees and across the green bog for a brief moment before vanishing.

The dawn had arrived, changing the color of the water and sky. Mesmerized by the beauty of the Highland landscape at break of day, Draco realized that Voldemort was casting too large a shadow over his life. This vile madman was chasing after immortality, and yet all he could do was create fear. Who was this dark wizard who was plotting to murder Draco's father in a cowardly and despicable way? He was lord of fear, which was to say, he was lord of nothing. People fear all manner of foolish things, not the least of which is the society around them, but Draco thought it stupid for people to let the demands of society rule their lives. That would be no better than being a minion of Voldemort, who did nothing but enslave his followers.

In that moment, Draco stumbled across a goal worthy of Slytherin ambition. He decided that he would free himself from fear. He'd always heard rumors about Voldemort's obsession with immortality, but now he knew what Voldemort didn't: conquer fear and you will conquer death. Draco rose and strode toward the castle with new resolve. He could face anything, even an extended Potions project with Potter. Draco groaned considering the notion. A project with Potter that will last days, maybe even weeks? If he could put up with that, he reckoned he could put up with anything.

* º * º *

Harry woke to a new day, not in Gryffindor Tower, but in a small, disused classroom on the sixth floor of the castle that Professor Dumbledore had converted into temporary living quarters. Dumbledore had insisted that Harry sleep and eat apart from the other students for the first few days of the term, and rather than attending all of his usual classes, Harry would only attend a private Potions class with Draco. The Headmaster was hopeful that Harry would be able to go back to his own dormitory and begin attending his other classes within a week. Harry wanted nothing more than to rejoin his fellow students in Gryffindor Tower, but first, Harry and Draco needed to find some counteragent for Harry's "condition," with assistance from Professor Snape.

This was not how Harry had expected to begin sixth year, and yet in some ways, it wasn't as bad as what he'd been expecting. A few short months ago, near the end of term, the Ravenclaw and Slytherin Quidditch teams had walked into the deserted locker room unannounced to witness an adventurous Harry losing his virginity and moaning in wild ecstasy as Kyle Urquhart, with his not inconsiderable anatomy, pounded into Harry. All summer long, Harry had steeled himself for rejection by many of the other students. Even the lust-inspired chaos on the Hogwarts Express the previous day was better than rejection and hostility, although Harry was relieved when Hermione's tapioca pudding turned out to be a temporary cure. Harry was a lot more comfortable with simple cordiality than having every male student at Hogwarts wanting to drag him into bed.

What distressed Harry was his own unexpected reaction toward Draco Malfoy. Harry had now spent the previous 24 hours going quietly crazy. He attempted to understand what he hadn't dared to tell anyone, what he was now brave enough to admit to himself. From the moment Harry saw Draco enter his train carriage, he felt the urge to seduce Draco. Even after he left the train, Harry spent his idle moments imagining every manner of ploy to use for the purpose of landing Draco in the sack. Harry was frantic, wondering what was wrong with him. This was Draco Malfoy, after all, bane of his existence for the last five years. He clung to the desperate hope that his erotic craving for Draco was a brief fluke, sort of like the 24-hour flu. Harry prepared himself to face the disquieting agenda that lay ahead of him.

It was still before dawn, but the house-elves had already delivered breakfast to Harry's room. He left his room long before the beginning of the earliest classes, planning to visit the library while it was still deserted. It couldn't hurt to study up on Potions before he had to confront Draco, who was _soooo_ much more accomplished in Potions than Harry. Dumbledore had told both Harry and Draco that there was no need for them to wear the usual robes that Hogwarts students always wore. This was an independent project, not a traditional classroom environment, so the Headmaster said they could wear any casual clothing that suited them. Harry threw on the first jersey and pair of jeans he could find and headed for the library before dawn.

Arriving in the empty library, Harry first sought out some standard volumes on potions, love spells and counterspells. He settled himself at a table in the corner of one of the reading areas. The information on potions was material Harry had already learned, and he found his attention wandering… and then he noticed a magazine in a small basket next to the chair he was sitting in: the July issue of _Wizarding Free Press._ It was one of those low-budget magazines that most of the Hogwarts faculty regarded as disreputable. One particular article title on the cover caught Harry's eye: "South London Witch Co-op Finds New Potion Uses for Reversing Technique." Throwing aside the standard potion text in his hand, Harry snatched the magazine and started reading the article.

· · · · · · A witch cooperative in the South London area has been collaborating recently  
· · · · · · with a Muggle dietary center for the purpose of reducing the calorie content  
· · · · · · of high-calorie dessert recipes. The witches involved in the project combine  
· · · · · · leech juice and sugar, and then heat them until they bond chemically. This is  
· · · · · · then added to a high-calorie mixture, such as chocolate mousse, and the mixture  
· · · · · · is then stirred widdershins, which is to say, counter-clockwise.

· · · · · · Leech juice is one of the reducing agents used in Shrinking Solution. In other  
· · · · · · potions, leech juice can be combined with other substances (in this case, sugar)  
· · · · · · in order to deplete the effect of those substances. Doing further research,  
· · · · · · the South London Witch Cooperative has located certain medieval texts which  
· · · · · · mention stirring a mixture widdershins as a reversing method in potion making…

Harry folded up the magazine and stuffed it in his back pocket, and then headed off to the dungeons to embark on his Potions project with Draco. Snape had already cleared out one of the extra chambers in the dungeons for Harry and Draco to work in, and he had installed all of the basic equipment that would be found in Potions class. The cabinets were stocked with a variety of ingredients derived from both plant and mineral sources.

Snape gave Harry and Draco instructions for a few basic love potions, along with reversing techniques that would, in effect, create a counteragent, something that would nullify the effect of a love spell. Snape gave Draco an advanced-level Potions book for some preliminary work, and put Harry to work chopping rose thorns. Harry kept his eyes on his work, not trusting himself to look at Draco. Snape reminded them that his teaching schedule would only allow him to offer occasional assistance, and Snape seemed eager to make his exit and leave the two on their own. Before leaving, Snape pulled out a rolled parchment and handed it to Draco.

"Oh, yes," Snape said. "Professor Dumbledore insisted that I procure this set of instructions for you from the house-elves in the kitchen. It's a standard method for making tapioca pudding, although I can't imagine any useful application for a dessert recipe. This is, after all, a Potions project."

"But Professor," Harry said, "Hermione's tapioca pudding did produce an effect yesterday on the Hogwarts Express."

"I suggest that any effect will most likely prove unreliable." Snape rolled his eyes. "But if the pudding recipe is of any use, fine." Snape turned toward the door and swept out of the chamber.

"So, Potter," Draco said, aiming for light conversion, "you're well rested I hope? I suppose we all needed something of a rest after yesterday's entertaining train ride. I mean, it's so boring to ride on the Hogwarts Express year after year the conventional way… you know, with the train staying on the tracks. I thought it was much more exciting to be on a train that was flying though mid-air and see the treetops far below. What would we all do without _you_ to add that extra bit of fun."

Harry tried his best to ignore Draco, but to no avail.

"And all those floral arrangements from half the blokes on the train. I was thinking of bringing a bouquet of roses for you today, Potter, you know, to make you feel at home."

"I'm glad you didn't." Draco's dry wit was pushing a few too many buttons for Harry's taste, but he kept his temper under control.

Then Harry looked up at Draco, looking at him closely for the first time since they arrived. Dumbledore had told them both that they could wear casual clothing, and Draco presented himself in a skin tight t-shirt. It took every bit of self-control for Harry to keep his jaw from dropping, and he contented himself with ogling.

Look at that beautiful chest. Where had Draco gotten muscles like that? That nice hard stomach and those biceps… and those biceps… and those biceps… God, where did he get those killer biceps? !

Harry forced himself out of his reverie. "Look, I'll keep doing the menial work like chopping rose thorns," Harry said, resentment creeping into his voice, "and you read the advanced Potions book and figure out what we're supposed to be doing. Maybe this evening, I'll try to get Hermione and Ron to tutor me in Potions, since they're both good in the subject, especially Hermione."

Draco threw his hands up in disgust. "Potter, why oh why do you have to drag them into the discussion? This project concerns you and me. We're the ones who are supposed to be collaborating on this."

"They've always been good friends to me," Harry said.

"But then again," Draco said, "we might need to send owls to other institutions during the course of the research; and I suppose Granger might be useful when it comes to sending owls, you know, with that god-awful bushy hair of hers." Draco was saying all of this while looking away from Harry, which was a mistake. He didn't see Harry start seething, and he certainly didn't see Harry clench his hand around the nearest available object, which happened to be a large beaker of pond slime standing on a nearby table.

"And Potions work does involve working with ingredients from nature after all." Draco was having fun now, but he still wasn't looking at Harry. "Perhaps we could clone Granger's hair and place the replicas all over Britain, you know, as a nesting environment for birds. Since potion ingredients are derived from nature, wouldn't that be considered a form of sympathetic magic? I think it would be, since her hair so closely resembles a bird nest. We might even ask her to follow her usual hair care routine and stick her finger in one of those Muggle electrical outlets every morning. I'm sure that's how Granger maintains just the right degree of frizz." Harry was boiling over with rage at this point, his hand wrapped around the neck of the beaker.

Draco started speaking before he turned around to look at Harry and was not facing Harry until he had finished the sentence. "Come on, Potter, work with me!"

Harry threw the beaker at Draco with all his strength. The beaker missed Draco by inches as he ducked just in time, the doomed beaker shattering against the wall behind Draco with a great crash.

Obviously, Draco was going to have to make a few concessions if they were going to get through this project without killing each other.

"All right, Potter, no more lighthearted remarks about your friends. I promise."

Harry looked over at where the glass beaker had exploded against the classroom wall. He couldn't help but blush red as he watched pond slime dribble down in fluorescent-green rivulets and ooze onto the floor. Harry kept his eyes on the floor where the green mess was puddling, and when he spoke, his voice had lost its force.

"You've always hated my friends so much."

"I don't hate them. My feelings toward them are neutral."

"Then why do you always insult them?"

Draco shrugged, not wanting to be honest, but seeing no other alternative. "They frustrate me."

"Why?" Harry insisted.

Draco raked his hands through his hair, leaving it disheveled, and tossed his arms up in a sudden fitful movement. "Because they monopolize your time. Whenever I'm tempted to start a conversation with you, I can't because they're everywhere that you are!"

Harry had never considered this before and paused to think about it.

"Come over here and read the Potions book with me," Draco said, his voice more even. "You might surprise yourself, Potter. Without Professor Snape breathing down your neck, your skills might improve. Haven't I told you before to follow my lead and you might learn something?"

"Yeah, that's right, Malfoy. I remember that insulting remark from last year."

"I wasn't being insulting," Draco shot back, "I was trying to be helpful. You only take things the wrong way when _I_ say them."

"All right, so let's just say that your skill at Potions could end up being useful… to a _lot_ of different people." Harry let the thought hang in the air, not wanting to be the first one to mention the change in Draco's loyalties that had occurred over the summer.

"I guess it's no secret that Voldemort has turned against my father," Draco said, laughing. "Everyone in Slytherin knows already from their parents, and I suspect it'll be common knowledge everywhere by about dinnertime today. Voldemort hasn't exactly been discreet about it. I suppose Dumbledore's told you I'm not on Voldemort's side anymore."

"Yeah, news travels fast around this place, doesn't it?"

"Oh, that's right." A smile played on Draco's lips. "I forgot about your locker room adventure with Kyle Urquhart at the end of term. That happened in the morning, if I remember correctly. I wasn't an eyewitness, but half the school knew about it by dinnertime. So, I guess that means the average news cycle at Hogwarts is about 12 hours."

Harry had to laugh in spite of himself. "You're right, Hogwarts is a major gossip mill."

"You know, when I heard that," Draco continued, "I couldn't help but wonder what use you had for an uncouth lout like Urquhart. Of course, the coward is lying low with his Ravenclaw girlfriend, but if I were you, I would forget the idiot."

"You have one thing in common with Kyle Urquhart," Harry countered, trying to maintain a neutral expression, but scowling anyway. "You have your own Ravenclaw girlfriend, right?" Harry was horrified anew at his reactions. Thinking about Draco with some Ravenclaw girl made his blood boil.

That's ridiculous, Harry thought. What difference should it make to me if he's got some stupid girlfriend? Oh my God, I must be going crazy. Help!

"And who told you that?" Draco's voice yanked Harry out of his dark thoughts of taking vengeance on a particular Ravenclaw girl. "Our families are acquainted. I know her socially, but that doesn't make her my girlfriend. Now get over here and help me, Potter. You can follow the instructions in this potion book just as well as I can."

Just to avoid an argument, Harry stopped chopping the rose thorns and started helping with a standard potion for counteracting love spells. They began to work together, the same as they had so many times before when Snape had partnered them together in Potions class. But it wasn't the same. There was something that was different, and Harry was trying to work out what it was. The work became easier and easier, and Harry was trying to figure out why. Draco didn't bother thinking about it. He was happier, and he left it at that.

Finally, it hit Harry. There was something that had always been there when the two of them had worked together before, something that was absent now: the rest of the world. There was Ron, who would unfailingly drop some comment about what a worthless ferret Draco was, and Harry was reminded of why he should treat Draco with hostility. There was Pansy, who would be delighted to make some cutting remark about how the scar on Harry's forehead must interfere with his ability to think, and that had to be why he was shit at Potions… and then Draco would be goaded into laughing along at Harry's expense. The rest of the world—Ron, Pansy and everyone else in Gryffindor and Slytherin—weren't there to maintain the atmosphere of rivalry and ill will between Harry and Draco. It was just the two of them creating a potion alone, and the tension between them melted away, having nothing to sustain it.

As they read the potion instructions, their shoulders brushed together; both of them noticed, but neither of them moved away from the other. As they handled the ingredients and passed them between each other, Harry's hands continually made contact with Draco's, but neither of them saw any need to limit the contact. In almost no time, the potion turned bright ruby red, indicating success.

"We did it," Harry said smiling, surprised at how easy it was.

"That's the only way we can finish this project, right? At least we can cooperate until we can put a successful potion together. Agreed?" Draco extended his hand.

Harry shook hands with Draco. "Agreed," Harry replied.

"You took my hand," Draco remarked, not letting go of Harry's hand. "You didn't the first time."

"What do you mean?"

"When we were in first year. You wouldn't shake my hand," Draco said, but Harry was starting to get dizzy, his eyes glazing over, and he held onto Draco's hand, if only to remain standing. Then Harry lost consciousness, crumpling onto the floor of the classroom.

"Are you alright, Potter?" Harry heard Draco's voice above him, Harry's eyelashes fluttered and he was opening his eyes now.

"Yeah. I think I blacked out because… it was because I heard this loud train going by. I don't know where the sound came from. And I don't know why it made me black out, but it did."

Draco helped Harry onto his feet, studying him as though he were looking at a puzzle and trying to figure out how the pieces fit together.

"We're going to have to test this potion out on one of the male students," Draco said, "but why don't we prepare a batch of the tapioca pudding, just to be on the safe side."

"You're right, we may as well have them both ready, just in case one doesn't work. Er, Malfoy? I was thinking… tapioca pudding only has a few ingredients. Take a look at the instructions Professor Snape gave us. It's just milk, eggs, sugar and dried cassava root. There were plenty of other desserts and pastries everyone on the train was eating yesterday, and a lot of them contained milk, eggs and sugar, but they didn't counteract love spells the way tapioca pudding seems to. That only leaves one ingredient: dried cassava root. So why don't we prepare a sweet mixture using just sugar and dried cassava root? And then we should add something that magnifies the effects of the cassava root, although I don't know of anything that would do that."

"Potter," Draco said, smiling with genuine pleasure, "that's an impressive display of logic. By the way, the potion ingredient that magnifies the effect of whatever it's combined with is octopus powder."

"Malfoy."

Draco noticed a curious smile on Harry's face. He had seen that peculiar expression on Harry's face before, over the years, and Draco recognized Harry's "troublemaker" smile.

"Yeah?"

"I think I know why we're doing so well with this project. Nobody else is here with us. I mean, everyone we know in Gryffindor and Slytherin. If other people were here, we'd be arguing with each other."

Draco tried to smile, but couldn't. "It's difficult to get rid of the rest of the world for any length of time, don't you think? All the other students are in the Potions class just down the hall." Draco shrugged, his eyes sad, and he gave a weary sigh. "It would be handy if you could just wave a wand and change the world around you, but I don't think they have a spell for that sort of thing."

And so, a short time later, during the break after Professor Snape's first Potions class, Draco slipped into the dungeon passageway and grabbed the first two male students to leave Snape's class, who happened to be Dean Thomas and Michael Corner.

"Thomas, Corner—hold up." Draco darted in front of the two. "Potter has something he needs to tell you. He's in a classroom down the corridor."

Dean Thomas's eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. "Harry's here? We've been looking for him everywhere. We heard that he has to work on some independent Potions project."

"He wants to see us?" Michael Corner couldn't hide his delight.

Draco led Dean and Michael into the small classroom.

Harry smiled and said, "Hey, Dean, how are things going in Gryffindor?"

"Harry!" Dean surprised Harry with a hug and began kissing him, beginning with his face and working his way further down. Michael already had his arm around Harry's waist. Draco had to force himself in between Harry and the other two to separate them. Harry was then able to steer clear of Dean and Michael.

Harry tried to sound convincing, "Malfoy and I have been testing out some dessert recipes for the kitchen elves and we wanted to see what you thought."

Draco shoved a cupful of the conventional potion for counteracting love spells at Dean and said, "Try this one first."

Dean took a large gulp and grimaced. "Blech! It's bloody awful!"

"Not that great, eh? All right then"—Draco handed him a bowl of tapioca pudding—"try this one."

Dean ate the pudding. "Quite good, actually. So, Harry, where were we?" Dean was back at Harry, unsuccessfully trying to get Harry to sit on his lap.

Draco took hold of Dean's arm and steered him toward the door. "We need to continue with our work. Headmaster's orders. You'll have to leave now. We'll let Corner say goodbye to Harry, and then he'll be leaving too."

Draco unceremoniously shoved Dean out the door as Dean looked over his shoulder and said, "Hey, Corner, let me know what's up with Harry, OK?"

Draco handed Michael Corner the bowl containing the potion of cassava root, sugar and octopus powder. "Here… last dessert experiment. See how you like it."

Michael ate it up. "Tastes fine to me." And then, with a sudden burst of energy he was at Harry's side talking nonstop. "So, Harry, you're working on potions? Then let me help you organize this place."

Michael gave Harry a quick kiss on the cheek, and before Draco could reach him, Michael had jumped up on one of the benches and started rearranging books on the shelves, his movements as fast as a deer running at full speed.

"I'll put the more advanced texts in one section, the intermediate-level texts in another section…" Michael was bouncing from one end of the room to the other too fast for Draco to catch him, although he dropped some books into Draco's hands every time he ran past.

"And now, let's alphabetize all of the potion ingredients." Michael was jumping onto and off of benches and chairs with inhuman speed, transferring bottles of ingredients from one location to another. He stopped in front of Harry and gave him a quick French kiss before running over to the shelves of ingredients again. "Don't you worry, Harry, we'll get this classroom into shape in no time!"

Seeing that his efforts to catch up with Michael were futile, Draco looked over at Harry, and just then an idea hit Harry.

"Valerian!" Harry shouted to Draco. Harry retrieved a bottle of powdered valerian from the shelf, added water—and a pinch of octopus powder for good measure—and then ran over to Michael. "Here, drink this. You're probably thirsty."

"You're so sweet," Michael said, then downed the liquid in one gulp. The calming effect was immediate.

Harry and Draco both cautiously drew closer to Michael, who was now perfectly relaxed.

"There's nothing else you want to straighten up around here?" Draco asked, waving his hand toward the shelves.

Michael shrugged. "Looks fine to me." He sauntered over to Harry. "But I did want to sit down and chat with Harry for a while," he cooed into Harry's ear. Michael's arm moved toward Harry's waist, but Harry was too quick and moved away.

Draco diplomatically ousted Michael from the room, just as he had done earlier with Dean. "Sorry, Corner, maybe some other time. Harry's schedule is full today, what with this Potions project he's working on for Professor Dumbledore and everything. Say goodbye, Corner."

"Yeah, Harry, I'll see you around"—Draco was politely shoving him out the door now—"real soon, OK, Harry?"

Draco locked and bolted the door the instant Michael was out. Draco slumped against the door in relief, gazing at Harry.

_"That_ was a spectacular failure," Draco said. "I think that last disaster must have been the octopus powder magnifying the effects of sugar."

Harry nodded. "I think some people get hyperactive with too much sugar, and adding the octopus powder as an intensifying agent made Corner bounce off the walls."

"Wait a minute, Potter," Draco said, an uncertain, questioning expression crossing his face, "how did you know to use valerian to calm him down? That ingredient is only used in very advanced-level potions."

"That's the ingredient Voldemort used when he made…"

Harry had already blurted out the words, and it was too late to take them back. He blushed red with shame, knowing he had gotten that information by viewing Narcissa Malfoy's stored memory, something he had no business viewing in the first place. Harry felt his heart wrench when he saw the intense anger written all across Draco's face.

That was really stupid, Harry thought. Why am I so stupid?

"That's the ingredient Voldemort used," Draco said, finishing the sentence for Harry, "when he made the treacle fudge that he wants to use for murdering my father. Dumbledore… ?" Draco was fuming. "Dumbledore showed you my mother's stored memory?"

Harry knew now that his inexplicable attraction to Draco was no 24-hour flu because he dreaded Draco's reaction now. There was no use in lying and saying that Dumbledore had showed him the stored memory; Draco could easily find out what happened by asking the Headmaster. Harry had no choice but to tell Draco the truth, and Harry's heart sank when he thought of how Draco would hate him more than ever. He couldn't fathom how Draco had created such a hold over his affections in such a short space of time, ever since Harry had first seen him on the Hogwarts Express the previous day.

"Professor Dumbledore didn't show me your mother's stored memory," Harry replied, lowering his head and hoping to hide his face. "Professor McGonagall took me to the Headmaster's office when I got off the train yesterday, but Professor Dumbledore was in a meeting. She told me she had to attend the meeting as well, and I was supposed to wait in his office until the Headmaster got back."

Now came the hard part. Harry had thought that he and Draco were almost starting to act civilly with each other. Their collaboration was beginning to feel comfortable… and who knows, they might even start to enjoy each other's company. But Harry was sure that Draco would go right back to hating him when he heard the next part. It was as if someone had given Harry the most wonderful present he could imagine, and he had it for a few happy moments, but now he was forced to give it back. And he loved his new present so much. He didn't want to give it back.

"I guess I was bored… so I started looking through the Headmaster's office for something to do… and then I saw your mother's container of memories on the shelf…" Harry was still looking down, and a silent tear slid down his cheek and onto his chin. "I knew it was wrong for me to look, but I was so curious that I couldn't help myself. I couldn't imagine what your mother's stored memory was doing in Professor Dumbledore's office." Several more tears followed, though Harry's head was still lowered, his face hidden. "I'm sorry, Malfoy. I know you don't have to accept my apology, but I'd like you to just the same."

Seeing Harry's tears, Draco opened his mouth to say something, and then closed it. He was at a complete loss for words, which was the rarest of occasions for Draco. Never in his life would he have expected Harry to care one way or the other about his opinion, let alone shed tears on account of what he thought.

Draco was forced to appraise the boy in front of him for the first time in years. Draco wasn't affected by any spell or whatever it was that made the other male students want to haul Harry off to the nearest private chamber. He looked at Harry and saw what he had seen ever since he had first laid eyes on Harry in Madam Malkin's robe shop five years before: a boy who was almost too beautiful to be real, every exquisitely perfect feature of his face carved by some master sculptor. And those haunting eyes… Every time Draco wandered through the high wooded hills around Hogwarts or the rolling hills and plains of his native Wiltshire, he was reminded of the deep green color of Harry's eyes.

Draco took Harry's arm and led him to one of the benches along the wall and sat down with him.

Draco hardly knew where to begin. "Since Harry Potter isn't here with us this morning, perhaps you could introduce yourself. You are… ?"

Harry laughed, relieved that the tension between the two of them was easing. "I'm capable of an apology when I've done something I shouldn't have."

"If Professor Dumbledore had used his authority to force the information on you, I suppose I would have been angry with him. But since it was only your uncontrollable curiosity… I guess, there's nothing to apologize for." Draco gently brushed the last remaining tears off Harry's cheek. "There's no real damage done, I suppose."

Draco was so astonished by Harry's radiant smile that he smiled himself.

"Even without viewing my mother's memory, you already knew, like everyone else did, that Voldemort had turned against my father."

"You don't call him the 'Dark Lord' anymore?" Harry couldn't resist asking.

"I'll do anything to protect myself and my family from that vile piece of shit."

Harry's expression turned more serious. "Yes… I'm sorry for the grief Voldemort has been putting you and your mother through."

"You know, Potter, a year ago, you would never have concerned yourself with respecting my privacy or my mother's privacy. You would have acted like a self-righteous prig. Honestly, Harry. You used to look at the world only through your own preconceptions." Draco rested his hand on Harry's shoulder. "What happened?"

Harry smiled softly. "People change. I guess they grow up. You've grown up a bit too, you know. Yesterday on the train, you were actually able to carry on a civilized conversation with 'Mione. I'm sure that surprised the hell out of her."

"That nickname refers to Granger, I presume," Draco replied, arching his left eyebrow.

Harry smiled.

"So," Draco said, "shall we concede defeat? I mean, concerning the results of our potion-making work this morning."

"No, we shouldn't." Harry pulled his copy of _Wizarding Free Press_ out of his back pocket. "I have one strategy left." Harry opened the magazine, turned to the article in question and handed the magazine to Draco.

After he finished reading the article, Draco set the magazine down. "Your idea is to apply these techniques to a recipe for tapioca pudding?" he asked.

Harry nodded.

"I suppose what that means," Draco began, "is combining leech juice with an ingredient used in love spells—"

"—like the chopped rose thorns from the basic love potion," Harry added.

"Fine, but I think we'll have to powder the rose thorns rather than chop them, that is, if we want the leech juice and rose thorns to chemically bond."

"Yeah, I guess you're right," Harry admitted. "The rose thorns have to be powdered."

"And stirring counter-clockwise… what's the medieval term? Widdershins?" Draco's eyebrows knitted together. "I've never heard of that, myself. But I suppose it's worth a try."

Harry and Draco had become accustomed to working with each other by this point, and it took minimal effort to whip up a new batch of tapioca pudding and heat the leech juice and powdered rose thorns in a separate cauldron until they chemically bonded.

"Ready for the mixture of leech juice and rose thorns?" Harry asked.

Draco poured the mixture into the tapioca pudding as he and Harry watched the combined mixture turn bright green, then dark purple, then silver, then pink, then cool grey and finally a bright gold color.

Draco looked at Harry uncertainly and said, "I'd be more comfortable if the final color were ruby red. That's the color that a potion for counteracting love spells is supposed to be… but that color change was impressive, in any case. Go for it, Potter. Stir the potion widdershins."

Harry placed the wooden spoon in the cauldron and stirred several times in a counter-clockwise direction…

Severus Snape was presently conducting Potions class several classrooms down the corridor from where Harry and Draco were working when he first heard a loud explosion nearby and then felt the floor start to shake. Aware that the British Isles were not located in an earthquake zone, Professor Snape, not to mention the rest of the class, began to pay close attention to the various glass phials and bottles arranged on the classroom shelves. The bottles were vibrating and, in some cases, clinking against each other. The next thing Professor Snape and his students took note of was the door of the classroom being knocked down with tremendous force, whereupon several enormous jungle vines of some variety invaded the classroom, knocking down everything in their path. Large yellowish-white globules now emerged from the base of the huge leaves and then shot up into the air. The globules burst to form many smaller globules of varying sizes, at which point they began chasing each other.

The globules that issued forth from the leaves of the jungle vines were made of some soft, gelatin-like substance, but rather than remaining round or oval in shape, one side of each globule split apart, with teeth-like formations at the upper and lower edges of the split. Having attained this final shape, the globules chased each other merrily through the air, the larger ones eating the smaller ones. Their jaws snapped open and shut ferociously as they consumed one another, and when there was only one large globule left from the original batch, it would burst apart, starting the entire fascinating process over again from the beginning. Students were scrambling everywhere as they attempted to get out of the way of the advancing jungle vines. The battling globules in the air splattered a great deal of yellowish-white substance at everyone present, and it became apparent that the substance was tapioca pudding, much to the delight of many of the students.

Snape climbed over the huge jungle vines, through the classroom, out the door, and into the corridor, tracking down the source of the calamity. He was not entirely surprised when the source turned out to be the classroom in which Harry and Draco were conducting their Potions project. As Snape squeezed through the doorway, which was now occupied by the gigantic trunks of jungle vines rather than a door, he could see Harry and Draco hurling all manner of liquid and powdered potion ingredients at the source of the monster plant, futilely attempting to bring the mammoth vegetation under control. This was, no doubt, where their cauldron once stood. Snape aimed his wand at the base of the plant and uttered a number of incantations in Latin. The huge vines contracted from the extensive portion of the Hogwarts dungeons that they had invaded: the classroom that Harry, Draco and Snape were in, the corridor and all of the surrounding classrooms. The jungle vines reversed the process of their growth and expansion until they were nothing more than a small Philodendron houseplant sitting on one of the tables. All that was left were large mounds of tapioca pudding… everywhere.


	5. Raiding the Spice Shelves

**Title: **Congenital Magnetism  
**Author: **Ascyltus  
**Completed: **Yes  
**Summary: **At the end of his fifth year, Harry displays his effortless knack for landing himself in problematic situations. Luckily, Harry begins to develop some unusual abilities that he has inherited by virtue of being one-quarter Veela. Only Draco Malfoy seems to be immune to Harry's newly found powers.  
**Disclaimer: **This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Chapter 5: Raiding the Spice Shelves**

Snape did not look at either Harry or Draco at first. He gazed upwards toward the ceiling, eyes wide open, as he asked, "What could… POSSIBLY… have caused this?"

Harry scraped his shoes against each other, staring at the floor. He lifted his head, looking contrite. "It was my idea, Professor."

Snape now deigned to lower his eyes and look at Harry. "Why does that not surprise me?"

Harry took his copy of _Wizarding Free Press,_ turned to the article about the South London Witch Co-op, and handed the magazine to Snape, who looked at it with deep mistrust.

"Mr. Potter, this magazine has an unsavory reputation," Snape said, "and at the very least, any information it contains should be regarded as untrustworthy." His eyes were fixed on Harry. "The article you were using is the one concerning…" Now Snape glanced down at the article. He lifted his head upwards, held his hand to his forehead and closed his eyes in pain. "… the one concerning a method for reducing the calorie content of dessert recipes?"

"Yes," Harry said in a small voice.

"Professor Snape," Draco interjected, putting his arm around Harry's shoulder, "it wasn't entirely Potter's fault. I told him that I thought the idea was worth a try, and we were collaborating every step of the way. Don't worry, nothing will go wrong this afternoon."

"After this morning's results, Mr. Malfoy, the phrase 'don't worry' is inappropriate. Gentlemen, please clean up the various deposits of pudding, replace any missing classroom doors and then have your lunch. Mr. Malfoy, you are required to attend one of your other classes each day for the duration of your Potions project with Mr. Potter. Today, I believe that will be Professor Trelawney's Divination class after lunch. You may join Mr. Potter after your class."

Snape wheeled around on Harry. "Mr. Potter, may I suggest that you use the time during which Mr. Malfoy is in Divination class to refresh your knowledge of the standard Potions textbooks with which I have provided you." Snape held up the magazine. "I will take this ridiculous example of publishing to the Headmaster to see if he has any insights to share. I will meet briefly with the two of you here when Mr. Malfoy gets back from Divination class."

An instant later, Harry and Draco saw Snape's robes disappearing through the doorway.

Draco smiled. "I think he secretly likes you."

"That's not funny, Malfoy."

* º * º *

On this, his first day back at Hogwarts, Harry didn't eat with the other students in the Great Hall, but rather up in his private room on the sixth floor. Finishing his lunch, Harry returned to the classroom in the dungeons where he and Draco had been working and whiled away the time leafing through Potions textbooks. Some time after that, he heard someone open the door. He was relieved to see Draco, but they had no time to chat, as Snape entered seconds later, holding not one, but two issues, of _Wizarding Free Press_.

"The Headmaster keeps track of these… publications." Snape handed one of the magazines to Harry. "The issue I am holding is the July issue, Mr. Potter," Snape said, "which is the issue you got your information from. The copy I just gave you is the August issue. You may take a brief look at the article I have selected for you, so that you may gain some idea of how foolish it is to use material from publications of this caliber."

Harry looked down at the article in the August issue and started reading while Draco read along with him.

· · · · · · **Another Urban Legend Debunked:  
· · · · · · Reversing Technique Fails to Decrease Calorie Content of Dessert Recipes**

· · · · · · Last month's issue featured an article about the South London Witch Cooperative  
· · · · · · and their efforts to use the medieval potion technique of stirring widdershins,  
· · · · · · or counter-clockwise, in the hopes of reducing the calorie content of dessert recipes.

· · · · · · "Rubbish," stated a spokesperson from the Ministry of Magic. "Just another urban  
· · · · · · legend with absolutely no basis in fact. Combining leech juice with other ingredients  
· · · · · · and then stirring the potion counter-clockwise has no effect on calorie content, and  
· · · · · · in fact, produces highly unpredictable results, depending on the ingredients involved."

· · · · · · In a related story, Lord Voldemort is suspected by many to have contacted the Muggle  
· · · · · · dietary center that the South London Witch Cooperative was collaborating with and  
· · · · · · secretly substituted his own dessert recipe for the one developed by the witch co-op.  
· · · · · · The recipe presumed to have originated from Lord Voldemort has horrifically opposite  
· · · · · · results from those intended. Correspondents for _Wizarding Free Press_ were able  
· · · · · · to track down a copy of the substituted recipe, which is called "The Dark Lord's  
· · · · · · Ultra-Dark Chocolate Shortening Mousse."

· · · · · · Lord Voldemort's recipe is based on a popular French recipe for chocolate mousse, but uses vegetable  
· · · · · · shortening, which is tasteless, in place of butter. Lord Voldemort then doubled  
· · · · · · the proportion of shortening, and finally, added a potion ingredient that multiplies  
· · · · · · the calorie content exponentially. The Muggles at the dietary center were finally alerted  
· · · · · · to Lord Voldemort's fraudulent activity, but not before a number of them gained  
· · · · · · considerable weight. Commenting on Lord Voldemort's scheme, one of the witches  
· · · · · · from the South London co-op remarked, "Evil never sleeps."

Snape reached out his hand when Harry and Draco had finished reading. "I think I can safely dispose of both of these issues." Harry handed the August issue back to Snape.

"It seems," Snape continued, "that these ill-advised techniques react with any ingredient derived from plants or minerals in freakish and unpredictable ways. In the case of your recipe for tapioca pudding, these techniques reacted with the ingredients from the cassava plant, which originated in the Amazon region of South America, and duplicated the massive jungle vegetation of that region."

"Mr. Potter, I hope you have learned a lesson in common sense from this." Snape sneered, giving Harry an intimidating glare. "I will leave the two of you to resume your efforts this afternoon, efforts which, I trust, will incorporate no further urban legends." Snape spun around, and then there was nothing but black robes flying out the door.

"So how was Divination class with Trelawney?" Harry asked turning to Draco, grateful for a chance to change the subject.

"Ludicrous. I'm starting to think it was a mistake to take Divination this year. Maybe I can ask to switch to Arithmancy. Trelawney told us to go back to our dorm rooms and get a small object that had some special significance for us. When we got back, she gave all of us one of these wooden boards for taking notes on." Draco held up a board just big enough to write on a parchment with. "We had to use a permanent attaching charm to attach our object to the board, and that"—Draco rolled his eyes—"is supposed to provide us with help from the spirit world when we take notes in her class."

Harry couldn't help laughing. "The more years that pass, the stranger Trelawney gets." Harry was looking over at the board now. "Let me see the object you attached. It looks really… old."

"It's a miniature relief sculpture of a temple that's carved on a small stone. My mother gave it to me as a good luck piece, so I always take it with me to Hogwarts."

"The temple looks Greek. Did your mother get it in Greece?"

"It's been in the family for a couple hundred years. No, it's not from Greece. It's from Baalbek, Lebanon." Draco pointed to the temple. "That's the Temple of Bacchus in Baalbek. A local wizarding family gave this to one of my ancestors back in the 18th century. They told him it had magical properties because the stone is from the foundation of the temple itself, but no one in my family has ever been able to find any magical uses for it. People from different generations have tried using the stone with spells and rituals, but it never has any effect on anything. It's just decorative, I guess."

"So, did it help you while you were taking notes in Trelawney's class?" Harry had a wide grin on his face.

"Not hardly. Look at these notes for today's useless topic. Tea leaves for telling the future? I suggested coffee grounds, but Trelawney didn't think it was funny."

Draco was pulling a different parchment out of his backpack. "I did something way better during lunch break: research at the library. Spices, Potter. I think that's what was in Granger's recipe for tapioca pudding. I'm betting that there was some spice or another in her recipe that we don't have in the basic recipe from the house-elves. Here's a list of some common spices with magical properties." Draco handed Harry a piece of paper with the notes he'd taken. "The problem this afternoon is getting into the kitchen. It's off-limits and the house-elves like to guard their turf."

Harry was already at the door, saying "I'll be right back. I've got something in my room that might be useful."

Harry returned shortly with his Invisibility Cloak. With a grand gesture, he draped it over himself, becoming invisible, and then yanked it off.

Draco was smiling. "I've always suspected that you had one of those."

"What are we waiting for?" Harry said. "Let's go shopping for some spices."

The Invisibility Cloak came in handy, since there was still plenty of activity going on inside the Hogwarts kitchen. There was plenty of room under the Cloak to accommodate the two of them, and Harry and Draco avoided the path of any of the house-elves as they searched for the cupboard where spices were stored. Finally inside the correct cupboard, Draco held the Invisibility Cloak up like a room divider, blocking the view of any passersby, so that Harry could find all the spices on the list and put them into the small bag he was carrying. Finishing up, Harry crouched down on the floor again, and Draco made sure they were both covered by the Cloak.

Just as one of the house-elves was passing by the cupboard, Harry moved the wrong way and a couple of the spice bottles inside the bag clinked against each other. The house-elf stopped right in front of the cupboard, looking inside. Harry and Draco hardly dared to breathe. The house-elf peered into the cupboard, where the sound had come from. With his nose pressed against Draco's chest, Harry secretly wished that the house-elf would take his time. The house-elf moved on after satisfying himself that everything was in order.

Draco looked down at Harry with a smile. "Are you comfortable?"

Harry hadn't realized how firmly he was pasting every inch of his face and body against Draco, and he blushed when he realized that he had attached himself to Draco like a coat of paint.

"Oh… sorry," Harry mumbled as he unglued himself from Draco, allowing some air space between them.

Back in the classroom, Harry was arranging the spices on the table that the cauldron was on.

"So how do we test this," Harry asked.

"Simple," Draco said with perfect confidence. "We make a batch of the standard potion for counteracting love spells, but we leave out the reversing agent. Then we'll add some spices and see if the color of the potion changes to red."

The potion was soon ready for the addition of spices, and Draco started leafing through a reference volume. "Go ahead, Potter, add spices and record the results."

Perhaps too impatiently, Harry started throwing several spices in, one after the other, and, they both saw the potion turn ruby red.

"That's it!" Draco shouted. "Did you write down the order? What was the order of the spices when you added them?"

"Er, no, I didn't write it down, but I kind of remember."

Draco ran to the other table and grabbed his wooden board from Divination class, the one with his "decorative" stone carving attached to the top. Draco snatched a sheet of parchment, set it on the board and started writing at the top:

· · · · · · · · · What are possible ingredients to use as counteragents against love spells?

"Come on, Potter, quick, before you forget. What was the order?"

"Er, ginger, clove, cinnamon, anise and nutmeg."

Harry watched as Draco scribbled down the ingredients in a vertical column. Two jaws dropped in unison. Never would they have expected what they saw on the parchment. Not in a thousand years. All of the words Draco had written disappeared, as though the ink were absorbed into the parchment. In its place, new words appeared.

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • You have contacted the Eastern Shore Network. Because the network covers a large geographical region, we will route your communication to that part of the network best able to answer your inquiry. Just one moment, please. • • •

Now these words disappeared, and the parchment remained blank for a brief moment. Then the following message appeared:

· · · · · · · · · TRANSMISSION COMING TO YOU FROM THE PHOENICIAN NETWORK SUBRGOUP

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • You are inquiring about ingredients which are used in potions that counteract love spells. There is one item on your list, cinnamon, which has been used to counteract the effects of erotic attraction, but that would not be attraction caused by a spell of any kind, but rather by the non-human racial inheritance of the individual in question. In the case of certain magical species, people who come into contact with the magical creature can consume a pinch of cinnamon to counteract the erotic attraction that the magical individual generates, but the effect is very temporary. The cinnamon can be used in food dishes, but it may be required daily, or sometimes even more often. • • •

Draco waited, and when no further writing appeared, he wrote a new line on the parchment underneath the most recent paragraph of information.

· · · · · · · · · Who, exactly, are we communicating with? Is the Eastern Shore Network somewhere on the North Sea coast? Is it near Norfolk or Suffolk? Is this a wizarding group?

All of the text disappeared and was replaced by an answer.

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • We are not an association of wizards, but an association of spirits, although we were all wizards when we were alive. We lived our earthly lives a few thousand years before the Roman Empire. The words "eastern shore" refer to the eastern shore of the Mediterranean Sea. There are similar spirit networks elsewhere in the world, but the communication device just above your writing area connects you with _our_ network. • • •

"Malfoy, they mean your small stone with the relief sculpture of the temple."

Still not satisfied, Draco wrote some more, and his answer was promptly returned.

· · · · · · · · · Members of my family have tried to use that object for spells and rituals, but never with any success.

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • That is because the ancient stone isn't meant to be used in spells or rituals, but as an interactive communication device. You're simply the first in your family who has ever used the device correctly. • • •

Draco turned toward Harry. "If we can get information from them, why not?" Draco kept writing.

· · · · · · · · · Could you tell us why a conventional potion for counteracting love spells has no effect?

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • In order to give you an accurate answer, please introduce yourself, inform us as to your age and provide us with a blood sample. • • •

"How much blood do we have to give them?" asked Harry, but Draco was already writing information on the parchment.

· · · · · · · · · My name is Draco Malfoy and next to me is Harry Potter. We're both sixteen years old. It's Potter who's been affecting people sexually—actually, he's only affecting the male students at our school that way.

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • If you don't mind us asking, what kind of male students does Mr. Potter affect? • • •

· · · · · · · · · All of them, actually. He's even affecting those of them who would never normally be affected by that kind of attraction. It's strange, but there it is, and it's only started recently. We're collaborating on a Potions project in order to find a counteragent, so that Potter can go about his usual routine again. How do we give you a blood sample, and how much blood do you need?

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • If Mr. Potter is the affected individual, only he needs to provide a blood sample. A single drop is sufficient. Ask Mr. Potter to place one drop of blood on the parchment. • • •

Harry pricked his thumb with the point of a knife and let a single drop of blood fall onto the parchment. Then Harry and Draco waited… a long time. Finally, Draco lost his patience and began writing again.

· · · · · · · · · Are you still there? Do you have an answer for us?

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • Our apologies, Mr. Malfoy. We've been so busy celebrating Harry's arrival. We have to break with our usual protocol and call Harry by his given name because the spirits love him so much. He is indeed a magical creature, so much so that those on our end give him the title "Qadesh." In our language, which the people of your time call Proto-Semitic, we use the word to describe a magical creature who is sacred or holy. Harry is a conduit through which the spirit world can send information. As far as your query about a counteragent for erotic attraction, we're certain that cinnamon will serve that purpose, although as we said before, the effect is very temporary. A more permanent solution is beyond the scope of today's discussion, but please keep in touch. We must attend to other duties now. Best regards. • • •

All text disappeared from the parchment, and Harry and Draco were left staring at each.

"I am not non-human! These people are nutters," Harry declared.

"They're spirits, I think."

"Even if they're spirits, they're still out of their minds."

"It's only their opinion, Potter. Care to see if a pinch of cinnamon works?" Draco opened up his backpack and retrieved a wrapped item. "I knew I was going to spend half of lunch break in the library, so I took a few pumpkin pasties with me." Draco took the bottle of cinnamon and sprinkled a small pinch over each of the pumpkin pasties.

Draco headed toward the door. "Let me see if there's anyone out in the corridor."

Afternoon Potions class was letting out, and Draco saw Blaise Zabini and Seamus Finnegan in the group coming out of the classroom, offering Draco an easy target.

"Blaise, Finnegan!" Draco waved his arm. "Over here."

"Draco, why weren't you in afternoon Potions class?" Blaise asked.

"I'll show you why," Draco replied, leading Blaise and Seamus into the classroom where Harry was waiting.

Blaise spotted Harry at once. "Draco, you devil! You've been keeping beautiful Harry all to yourself, haven't you?" Draco had to run to catch up with Blaise, who was already trying wrapping to wrap his arms around Harry.

"Potter and I are doing a research project. You two are willing to help out, right?" Draco asked, pumpkin pasty in hand.

"Anything for Harry," Seamus said, sidling up to Harry, who was still busy fending off Blaise.

"Here." Draco offered Blaise and Seamus one pumpkin pasty each. "Harry and I are testing out dessert recipes for the house-elves in the kitchen, and we need people to give us their opinions. Have a bite."

Blaise was distracted by Draco's request. "That's all I have to do? Sure."

One mouthful and Blaise was himself again. "Tasty," Blaise said as he polished off the pastry.

Seamus moved away from Harry long enough to eat the pumpkin pasty, and immediately felt much less romantic.

"So, Blaise, Seamus," Draco ventured, "Harry and I have to finish this project. I'll see you around, all right?"

"Yeah, no problem," Seamus said without even glancing at Harry.

"You guys get back to work. I'll see you later in the common room, Draco," Blaise said, and Seamus and Blaise were out the door.

"As soon as they ate the pumpkin pasties," Draco said, "they ignored you completely."

"It looks like cinnamon was the spice in Hermione's recipe for tapioca pudding," Harry said. "That's why her pudding was effective on the train yesterday." Harry noticed Draco smiling. "Don't look at me like that, Malfoy. I still think these spirits that we're communicating with are nutters."

"They were right about the cinnamon," Draco pointed out.

"So cinnamon works. So what? Just because these loony spirits were right about the cinnamon, it doesn't prove that they're right about me being some magical creature."

"Maybe they're being metaphoric," Draco remarked. "Whenever you lose that holier-than-thou nonsense, you do have a certain magic."

Before Harry could protest further, there was a knock at the door, and the Headmaster entered. Turning so that he couldn't be seen, Harry whispered to Draco, "Not a word to Professor Dumbledore about the crazy spirit association."

"I'll leave that up to you, Potter," Draco whispered back.

Approaching the two with an understanding smile, Dumbledore greeted them.

"Draco, Harry, I'm so glad I could catch you before you left for the day. I've received invaluable information from my associates at Beauxbatons Academy in France, information that could help you a great deal with your Potions project. But first, have you been working together effectively?"

Harry smiled shyly and said, "Malfoy's knowledge of Potions is really something. I'd never have gotten anywhere without him."

Draco had his arm around Harry's shoulder. "Potter is far too modest. His logic is brilliant. It's been a genuine collaboration. And Headmaster, we've found an effective counteragent, although the effect is only temporary."

"I'm delighted to hear it," the Headmaster declared. "But now I have to ask you, Harry, to visit me in my office after dinner—shall we say about six o'clock—to discuss some of the information that my colleagues at Beauxbatons have provided me with. It's genealogical research concerning your maternal grandmother. Do you have any information of your own which you can provide concerning Mrs. Evans, that is, your grandmother?"

This was the last thing that Harry wanted to talk about, especially in front of Draco, so he tried to make it short and sweet.

"I have a few paragraphs of research that Sirius wrote years ago, and yeah, he mentions my grandmother. It's just one page, and my Aunt Petunia had kept it since my mother died. She gave it to me yesterday, before I boarded the Hogwarts Express."

"Excellent, Harry. Bring that along with you," Dumbledore said heading out the door. "Oh, and Draco," he said, almost as an afterthought, "you come along too. I think your insights could be helpful."

Alone again, it was difficult for Harry and Draco not to acknowledge the progress they had made with their Potions project.

"Potter, this is success, even if it's only temporary success. And that Invisibility Cloak of yours is brilliant. I was wondering…" Draco's left eyebrow arched up in that way that Harry was becoming very fond of. "You, Granger and Weasley have probably been able to fit under your Invisibility Cloak at the same time."

"Oh, yeah, we've done it a few times."

"What I mean, Potter, is that it's very roomy under there." Draco smiled softly. Not a smirk, just a gentle smile. "There's plenty of room for three people."

Harry looked light a deer caught in the headlights of a Muggle car, and he blushed red remembering how he had unnecessarily plastered himself onto Draco like a second skin while they were under the Invisibility Cloak.

"See you in the Headmaster's office at six o'clock, Potter," Draco said, and he was gone.

Harry made his way back to the little room on the sixth floor of the castle that was his temporary home. Snape had been overflowing with criticism all day long. He simply hated the potion Harry created, the one that resulted in giant swamp vegetation. As Harry collapsed on his bed, he realized how lucky he was; at the beginning of term, Dumbledore had asked Snape to develop a custom-made potion for each male faculty member—including Snape himself, thank God. Images of Snape developing romantic intentions were just too disconcerting for Harry to even consider. Yes, things could definitely be worse. Keeping Blaise, Seamus, Dean and Michael at a distance was challenging enough. But at least Harry didn't have to stave off romantic advances from faculty members.

Harry looked toward the single window of his room, which faced the western sky, as the afternoon sun came flooding in. The sky was perfectly cloudless, just like that June morning three months ago when Kyle Urquhart, the new captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team, was coaxing Harry into all manner of compromising sexual positions. Even alone in his room, Harry blushed as he remembered the stunned or amused faces of the Ravenclaw and Slytherin Quidditch players who had inadvertently stumbled upon Harry and Urquhart during their episode of lust.

Earlier that morning, Draco had called Urquhart an uncouth lout and asked Harry what use he could have had for Urquhart. It made Harry wonder. Was there even the slimmest possibility that Draco was jealous of Urquhart? It made Harry almost dizzy with happiness to imagine that Draco might like him enough to be jealous. But why would Draco, one of the brightest students at Hogwarts, ever be jealous of Urquhart, who probably needed tutoring help? Technically, Draco was taller than Harry—but nothing like Urquhart, who was at least half a head taller than Harry. Draco already had an athletic build, but not the massive muscles Urquhart displayed. And only Urquhart had that layer of body hair on his chest and forearms. Harry couldn't help but smile, thinking about how crude and demanding—and fun—Urquhart had been during that locker room scene.

But Harry had made no connection with Urquhart other than a physical one. There was no deeper bond—nothing like the relentless, irresistible attraction he felt whenever Draco was present. It had started on the Hogwarts Express, at the beginning of term. The moment Harry first saw Draco on the train, he had felt actual threads wrapping themselves around his body, and the threads stretched out across the passenger compartment and wrapped themselves around Draco. Harry had pulled his arm away from Draco, and sure enough, he saw Draco's arm being tugged toward him. What kind of person would experience something like that? Or was it the sort of experience that some kind of magical creature goes through?

Could these Eastern Shore spirits possibly be right? A non-human racial inheritance? Harry got off the bed, moved over to the desk and began fishing in one of the drawers. He pulled out the torn piece of paper Aunt Petunia had given him on the day he boarded the Hogwarts Express. Sirius had written this, and Harry closed his eyes as he thought of his godfather, who had died this past summer, murdered by Bellatrix at the Department of Mysteries. Harry opened his eyes and the first paragraph jumped out at him:

· · · · · · Lily's biracial bloodline is attributable to her mother, Mrs. Evans, who was of a different  
· · · · · · racial inheritance than the rest of us. The fact that Lily was partially of another race  
· · · · · · explains the magnetism she possesses with regards to so many of the male students  
· · · · · · at Hogwarts—and even some of the professors—something which began to manifest  
· · · · · · itself after Lily's sixteenth birthday.

Another race? What race could Sirius have been talking about? Had Harry inherited something he wasn't yet aware of? Harry kept reading and paused at Sirius's most unnerving question:

· · · · · · What if a male of Mrs. Evans's race were himself  
· · · · · · attracted more to his own sex than the opposite sex. How would this alter the dynamics  
· · · · · · of his powers? There are so many possible scenarios. Would he still attract mainly women,  
· · · · · · or would he exert his magnetism over a larger proportion of men and a smaller proportion  
· · · · · · of women? Or is it possible that he would hold powers of attraction over the vast majority  
· · · · · · of men, and women not at all? I could find no historical data concerning such a circumstance,  
· · · · · · but it would be fascinating to document such a case.

Am I a _case?_ Harry thought.

If only Harry could give the mystery a name, something to call this non-human race. But he hadn't the slightest clue. He'd never heard of anything like this before, a boy who exerted sexual attraction on all the males around him. And the inexplicable attachment between him and Draco. What was that all about? He was left with nothing but an enigma that was somehow linked to his maternal grandmother, who, according to Petunia, was of French birth and had come to England when she was a teenager.

Harry had never heard of a boy who was associated with unusual events like these, but maybe if he could think of some girl he met at Hogwarts who produced this kind of unstoppable sexual magnetism. There had even been students from other schools and Quidditch teams that had visited Hogwarts—from Ireland, Bulgaria and France. Harry sighed. No answers came to him, and maybe they never would.

Harry put the torn page of Sirius's research notes back in the desk drawer. There was nothing left to do but prepare for a meeting with Dumbledore after dinner. Just to make things as embarrassing as possible, the Headmaster had asked Draco to show up too. Harry cringed remembering the trip to the Hogwarts kitchen with Draco. The Invisibility Cloak was easily big enough for three people to fit under, with plenty of elbow room. Why had Harry been foolish enough to snuggle right up against Draco like some lovesick puppy?

"Stupid," Harry muttered. "That was so incredibly stupid."

Harry flopped back down on his bed and reviewed his predicament. Draco knew. He had to. Harry hadn't been able to hide his obsessive attraction to Draco, and now he was headed to a meeting with him and Dumbledore. Harry could only hope that something good would come of this meeting. Maybe Dumbledore had some information that would shed new light on Harry's situation, or even suggest a breakthrough. Harry strained to think of some precedent for the present craziness. Even Ron was affected. Ron of all people! It was hard to think of any boy who was less likely than Ron to get romantic with another boy. In fact, Harry couldn't think of anyone at all who had ever affected Ron like this.

Harry closed his eyes for a moment, allowing himself a brief catnap.

Ron never behaved like that, Harry thought, drifting between waking and sleeping… except maybe that one time during the Triwizard Tournament… that blonde girl from France…


	6. Spirits of the Swamp

**Title: **Congenital Magnetism  
**Author: **Ascyltus  
**Completed: **Yes  
**Summary: **At the end of his fifth year, Harry displays his effortless knack for landing himself in problematic situations. Luckily, Harry begins to develop some unusual abilities that he has inherited by virtue of being one-quarter Veela. Only Draco Malfoy seems to be immune to Harry's newly found powers.  
**Disclaimer: **This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Chapter 6: Spirits of the Swamp**

At six o'clock that evening, as Dumbledore had requested, Harry and Draco arrived in front of the gargoyle that stood guard in the Headmaster's Tower. Draco noticed a disturbing consequence of his collaborative Potions work with Harry: the urge to be agreeable with Harry had infiltrated his mind.

"You do the honors, Potter."

Harry repeated the new password Dumbledore had given to Draco and him before leaving their Potions classroom that afternoon:

"Lasagne al forno."

The gargoyle made way for the two of them, and the moving spiral staircase spirited them up to the Headmaster's office. Draco let the brass knocker fall, and Dumbledore appeared at the door and ushered them inside the office with a genial expression.

"Gentlemen, please."

Dumbledore motioned for Harry and Draco to take seats in front of his desk. The previous Headmasters and Headmistresses were snoozing in their respective portraits as Dumbledore reached for a long rolled-up parchment scroll that rested against the wall behind him. The Headmaster fixed one end of the parchment scroll to the top of a frame behind his desk, unrolled the parchment, then secured the bottom ends. The unveiled parchment now covered most of the wall and displayed what appeared to be an enormous family tree, spanning many generations, but the writing was too small for Harry and Draco to read from their seats.

"Let me tell you both how pleased I am that your Potions project is progressing so well," Dumbledore began. "You told me this afternoon that you have discovered something that will act as a temporary counteragent for Harry's effect on the male students at Hogwarts. I'm eager to see how this works on a larger scale, but this evening, I would like to discuss a factor that I think has a bearing on any long-range solution. Harry, I asked if you could bring the page of research that Sirius had written, the text in which you say Sirius mentions your maternal grandmother."

Harry shifted in his chair, stalling, but he realized he had no choice. He pulled the torn piece of parchment from his back pocket and handed it to Dumbledore. The Headmaster read the entire page, then gave it back.

"Harry, I will tell you that your godfather's research confirms the information that my colleagues at Beauxbatons Academy in France have uncovered—concerning your family history—although you are certainly within your rights to keep the contents of Sirius's remarks private."

Aware of Draco's presence, Harry didn't want to give the impression he had something to hide. He shrugged his shoulders indifferently.

"It's all right, sir," Harry said. "Malfoy can have a look if he likes."

"Perhaps the two of you will want to incorporate Sirius's insights into your work later. However, as for our discussion tonight… did you realize, Harry, that your grandmother, Lily's mother, first came to this country at the age of eighteen, that is, when she married Lily's father? She was French by birth."

This was not a topic of conversation Harry was keen on pursuing, and every second that passed found him shifting and squirming more.

"Yes, sir, I do remember my Aunt Petunia saying that my grandmother was French, but Petunia said she spoke with hardly any French accent."

Dumbledore chuckled. "Yes, I'm sure she adapted well to her new country." He swiveled in his chair and studied the genealogical chart behind him, then regarded Harry again. "You're already acquainted with Fleur Delacour—from the Triwizard Tournament."

A sense of impending doom descended on Harry. He nodded.

"Harry, there is no roundabout way of saying this." Dumbledore fixed Harry with a steady gaze. "Your grandmother, Capucine Lefevre Evans, and the grandmother of Fleur Delacour, Coco Lefevre Mercier—both of them deceased—were sisters… and they were also full-blooded Veela… which means that you, Harry, are one-quarter Veela. You and Fleur are second cousins."

The Headmasters and Headmistresses who resided in the portraits in Dumbledore's office were known to be light sleepers, but they awoke from their naps in record time.

"Full-blooded Veela?" Phineas Black shouted from his portrait. "I should think their husbands died before them, of sheer exhaustion, if nothing else. I'm sure many of you are aware of the Veela reputation for riotous, gymnastic goings-on in the bedroom. I knew a wizard who was married to a Veela. Wouldn't give her up for the world, but he had a devil of a time keeping up with her in bed."

Dexter Fortescue interrupted Phineas Black's outburst from his own portrait. "Phineas, will you hold your tongue? You're embarrassing the poor boy. That's his grandmother's people you're blathering about. He may well have inherited all of his grandmother's alarming talents."

"I think I know magical creatures as well as anyone," said Newton Scamander, the last former Headmaster to offer an opinion. "If the boy is part-Veela, the Headmaster needs to know in which direction the boy's interests run. If his powers affect females, perhaps the situation is manageable, although barely. But if the boy's powers are directed toward males… Good God in heaven. In a case such as that, let the current Headmaster know that his school is in for a bumpy ride. If the boy were drawn toward males to any degree, and he exhibits the lecherous artistry that most female Veela do, one shudders to think of the sexual mayhem that would ensue."

Dumbledore held his hand up and addressed the occupants of the various portraits. "Silence, please." The former Headmasters grumbled, but discontinued their commentary.

Only now did Dumbledore notice that Draco was slipping off his chair. Although Draco tried to remain in his seat, it was a losing battle. He wore a huge smile on his face, and he was squeezing his lips together in a supreme effort, as though he were preventing laughter through the application of pressure. Draco's attempts to compose himself failed miserably, and he dissolved into laughter as he slid out of his chair and melted onto the floor with his face buried in his hands, laughing like a maniac.

Harry sat in his chair, rigid as a board. He addressed Dumbledore with a helpless look on his face.

"Are you quite sure the genealogical information is correct? I mean, could the people at Beauxbatons have made a mistake of some kind?"

Draco was presently prostrate on the floor, laughing and giggling to the point of being incapacitated.

Dumbledore smiled at Harry's attempts to avoid the evidence that confronted him. "There is no doubt as to the accuracy of our information. I understand your shock at discovering this part of your family heritage for the first time."

Draco was making gleeful little noises as he crawled back toward his chair.

"Draco, please," Dumbledore said, his tone gentle. "This is not the time to make light of Harry's… special inheritance."

Dumbledore saw the stricken look on Harry's face and regarded him with a measure of sympathy. "I am convinced that the best course to follow is for the two of you to continue your efforts. I say this because, as you have told me yourselves, your collaboration has already resulted in some measure of success with your Potions project."

This was met with another outburst of giggles from Draco. Harry looked over at Draco in agony.

"Malfoy, will you please shut up? For the sake of common decency, will you please, please shut up?"

Draco dragged himself into his chair and made a visible effort to control himself. With difficulty, he adopted an earnest and thoughtful tone of voice.

"You know, Potter, Potions has always been the one academic discipline where you could use some tutoring, and that's where I come in. I want you to think of our research as advancing the frontiers of science. Think of all the dark, hidden corners of Veela sexuality on which science has yet to shine a light."

"Is there nothing I can possibly do to make you shut up?" Harry asked in a weary voice.

"Harry." Dumbledore broke in for the sake of diplomacy. "Is it possible that you've noticed Veela characteristics in the people on your mother's side of the family, that is, your aunt and cousin? They do share the same Veela bloodline with you."

Harry hated to admit it, but the facts spoke for themselves. "Yeah, Aunt Petunia went through some sort of revelation during the past year, and she's begun to look all posh and stylish. And Dudley, er, lost a lot of his excess weight this past summer. I guess he looks a lot better recently than he ever did before."

Dumbledore drove his uncomfortable point home. "So your cousin's change occurred around the time of his sixteenth birthday, which would be consistent with the timing of Veela inheritance."

The irrefutable evidence was crashing down on Harry, and there was no escape. He looked up at Dumbledore and offered his feeble reply. "I suppose."

Draco continued undeterred. "Potter, we need to get out into the forests and swamps and explore the natural habitat of Veela. You think I'm ignorant of Muggle culture, but that's not true. When I was a child, my mother took me to see a Muggle ballet called _Giselle,_ and it's all about Veela. During the performance, the Veela wear lacy chiffon dresses, and they flit about in woodland clearings behaving in a thoroughly saucy manner. Now aren't you impressed with my familiarity with the Muggle arts?"

Harry closed his eyes in misery. "I'm proud of you, Malfoy."

"My father even had some volumes about Veela in his library that I read as a child," Draco added. "They provided me with wonderful insights about Veela. I remember one book in particular. It explained the habits of the Veela that live in the swamps near the Danube River in northeastern Bulgaria. As I recall, Veela like swamps because they've got these handy fairy wings that let them fly over the swamp for a while so that they can dry off every now and then."

"Stop, please. I don't need you to paint a picture for me."

"Keep in mind," Dumbledore said, "that Veela wings are controlled by a recessive gene, and part-Veela, such as Harry, virtually never exhibit this trait."

One of Draco's eyebrows arched up as he continued. "Now that I think about it…" Draco's left eyebrow shifting upwards was a simple facial gesture, but its effect on Harry was to scatter any coherent thoughts.

Dear God, Harry thought, please make him stop doing that sexy thing with his eyebrow before I jump in his lap.

"… I seem to remember, Potter, that you were able to stay underwater at the bottom of Hogwarts Lake for an unusual length of time during the Triwizard Tournament."

"That was because I ate Gillyweed before the second task."

Dumbledore nodded. "The Gillyweed may have helped, but Draco does raise a valid point, Harry. Veela have a well-known affinity for lakes, rivers and especially wetlands."

It was clear how much Draco appreciated the beauty of the natural surroundings that Veela were accustomed to.

"Oh, come on, Potter, all that gurgling mud and algae and moss in the swamps bring out the color of your eyes."

Harry gritted his teeth. "You have the heart of a poet."

Draco beamed. "I like to think so."

"Well, gentlemen," Dumbledore broke in, "I'm sure the two of you have a lot of planning to do. As before, you can continue to rely on Professor Snape for assistance and counsel during the course of your Potions project. Professor Snape is now aware of your Veela family history, Harry."

Dumbledore noticed the look of apprehension that spread across Harry's face.

"Not to worry, Harry. I haven't revealed the news of your Veela inheritance to any of the students here at Hogwarts. I've only informed the members of the faculty, and I insisted they remain discreet."

Harry let loose a sigh of relief.

"However, gentlemen, before we finish our discussion this evening, I'd like you to know about some interesting insights that Fleur Delacour herself has provided me with. When I contacted my colleagues at Beauxbatons, I made a point of writing to Fleur. I provided her with all of the information I have collected from everyone who has had contact with Harry since he boarded the Hogwarts Express yesterday morning.

"She replied and Fleur sends her warmest regards to you, Harry. She was delighted when she learned that the two of you are second cousins, and I'm sure she intends to write to you herself. The most interesting parts of her letter concern what Fleur described as the long-term strategy for managing the sexual magnetism that Veela project." The Headmaster considered Harry for a moment, his eyes twinkling. "Harry, it's as simple as letting your instincts guide you to find a mate and being accepted by that mate. Veela instincts begin to manifest after the age of sixteen, and this is also the case for part-Veela like you. Once a Veela or part-Veela has found and been accepted by a mate, the Veela's effects on other people will begin to subside."

Harry tried to control the parade of panicky notions that raced through his brain. No, please, no, he thought. Draco flipping Malfoy is supposed to be my mate? I've been lusting after Draco non-stop for the past two days. My stupid instincts are doing this? Why would I have self-destructive instincts?

True to form, Draco asked the most embarrassing question possible. "And why do Veela instincts lead an individual to a particular mate? Is it a random process of picking the first attractive potential mate who happens along, or is there an underlying logic to it all?"

"As I have recently learned," Dumbledore said, "Veela instincts are not random in the least, and this is where Fleur's knowledge has proven invaluable. I first related to her the series of events that transpired when Harry first saw you on the Hogwarts Express, Draco. Harry felt fine threads, similar to the silk that spiders use to make webs, attaching themselves to his skin, and he felt the threads pulling from your direction. He also felt his heart rate increase. Harry told me that, judging from the expression on your face, he thought you experienced the same phenomena. Is that true, Draco?"

Even though it might have been an attractive option, it was impossible for Draco to lie about this. When the two of them had first seen each other on the train, Harry had watched Draco's every move and noted every perplexed expression on his face. Draco had felt the same threads pulling him, the same rapid heartbeat. Harry knew.

Draco maintained an even tone of voice. "Yes, that's what I experienced as well, but I don't think it necessarily has anything to do with Potter choosing a mate. The sensation of fine threads materializing might be nothing more than another product of Potter's Veela powers occurring in random situations."

Dumbledore's answer supported Draco's suggestion, much to the relief of both Draco and Harry. "And that was exactly Fleur's reply, Draco, when I suggested the possibility of Harry's Veela instincts guiding him in your direction. She said it was equally likely that the symptoms both of you describe are random and irrelevant. The only reliable indication of a Veela having found a mate is if someone to whom the Veela is romantically drawn makes it clear that they accept the Veela."

Dumbledore directed his attention at Harry. "Are you aware of such a sentiment from anyone, Harry?"

"No, sir," Harry replied in perfect honesty.

Draco understood Harry well enough to know he was guileless, not bothering to hide anything. Draco stared into those green eyes—he often spotted that same color in the woods, pasture and bogland that surrounded Hogwarts—and listened to Harry state the plain truth: no one had ever made Harry aware of a yearning so strong and constant that it crossed the bounds of family and society. From what Draco could see, Harry never had any need to hide anything. Always the Golden Boy, the savior of the wizarding world, beloved by everyone. Draco had always had to cope with family alliances and his father's expectations; he never had the luxury of satisfying his own whims and fancies the way Harry could, and he envied Harry for having that kind of freedom.

"… I said, Draco"—The Headmaster's voice forced Draco out of his thoughts, and he was aware he'd been daydreaming—"have you ever heard any report of someone who had such a passionate attachment to Harry?"

Now it was Harry's turn to observe. The shuttered look Harry knew so well came down over Draco's face. Whenever Draco adopted that camouflage, Harry could never glimpse the hidden thoughts that lay beyond.

Draco looked at Dumbledore, but didn't quite look him straight in the eye. "No one has ever told me any such thing about Potter."

A short time later, Harry and Draco left the Headmaster's Tower and headed down the corridors of the sixth floor toward Harry's temporary sleeping quarters, neither of them wanting to be the first to break the silence. Draco had insisted on seeing Harry to his room before heading back to his common room in Slytherin Dungeon, and Harry wondered at that because Draco's gesture was so unnecessary. They took the last turn and Draco reached out, grabbing a handful of Harry's robes, and he pushed Harry into a corner.

"You remember what you told me this afternoon in the Potions classroom, Potter? Not a word to Dumbledore about the crazy spirit association that's been giving us information. I didn't tell him a thing about them, did I?"

"OK, you kept your word about that," Harry admitted.

Draco kept Harry trapped in the corner but took care that his hold on Harry's robes was gentle. Harry squirmed but didn't find it unpleasant to have the taller boy pin him against the wall.

"You were worried about Dumbledore finding out what the Eastern Shore Network said about you, that you're a magical creature. But you see, it didn't matter because they were right." Draco smiled with satisfaction. "So far, they've been right about everything they've told us. So I was thinking… let's not tell Dumbledore about the Eastern Shore Network just yet. Or Professor Snape. Or any of the teachers. They might think it's too irregular to be using information from disembodied spirits."

Harry nodded in agreement. "Do you still have the wooden board we were using to communicate with?"

Draco reached inside his backpack and pulled out the wooden board that Professor Trelawney had asked all her Divination students to create. Draco's stone sculpture of an ancient temple, attached to the top of the board, caught the golden light of the torches that lit the corridor.

"You're right," Harry said, "we shouldn't tell the Headmaster or any of the teachers… but let me borrow the board for tonight. I want to show it to Ron, and afterwards, he can tell Hermione." Harry saw the testy look on Draco's face. "But no one else will know. I promise. Just Ron and Hermione."

"Do you always have to include them?" Draco's eyes narrowed. He wasn't thrilled about Harry's request, but Harry, stubborn as always, refused to back down.

"They've always given me good advice, and I need to know what they think."

"How do you know they won't tell every last soul in Gryffindor?"

"I'll make them promise. I know I can trust them. They've never betrayed a confidence. Never."

Letting Ron and Hermione know about the communication device was important to Harry. How else to explain why Harry used strategies with Draco that he wouldn't have dreamt of using before now? Harry squirmed closer to Draco.

"Malfoy? Pleeeease?"

Draco was determined to pursue this project with Harry, if only because he was fascinated by the potential store of information that the Eastern Shore Network could produce. How else to explain why his body so often disengaged from his brain when Harry was about? Draco snorted with some indignation, but he clamped his hand on Harry's shoulder, pushed Harry against the wall, then delivered the wooden board into Harry's waiting hands.

Draco backed away from Harry and started down the corridor. He looked over his shoulder and said, "Meet me in the library early tomorrow, before breakfast—the tables in the northwest corner."

Harry opened his mouth and smiled. "Thanks, Malfoy," he said, holding up the communication board. Draco couldn't think of anyone he had ever met who had the same open-mouthed smile as Harry—it was all his own. And it occurred to Draco that he was becoming far too accustomed to Harry's captivating smile. Draco shook his head in disbelief and withdrew down the torch-lit corridor.

Harry wasted no time in making his way toward the Gryffindor common room. He didn't even know the password, and he was hoping someone might be entering or leaving… A figure with long, flowing blond hair drifted by Harry, saw him, then stopped in her tracks. By some happy coincidence, Lavender Brown was returning from an evening stroll.

"Harry! Everyone in Gryffindor has been wondering about you all day. Dumbledore put you in some sleeping quarters downstairs on the sixth floor, didn't he?"

"Until Malfoy and I can put together a potion that works as well as the tapioca pudding from Hermione's notebook of culinary spells… you know…" a pink tinge settled on Harry's cheeks, "… like yesterday on the Hogwarts Express."

"Oh, that's right. Harry, you poor dear. Those boys were acting like beasts yesterday, all of them wanting to haul you off and do heaven knows what with you. But you say you have to work on the potion with Malfoy? Why him of all people?"

"He's the only boy who's not affected by the, er…" Harry had no desire to give Lavender Brown a lengthy explanation of Veela inheritance, "… by whatever spell I'm under. But listen, can you find Hermione and ask her to meet me here in the hallway? I need her advice about… lots of things, I think."

"I'll get her right now. And Harry"—Lavender's eyes flashed with a crazed glint now—"in case your potion doesn't work like the tapioca pudding did, Professor Trelawney is working on a counterspell for you."

Lavender's cryptic smile was unnerving, and Harry didn't want to speculate about whatever screwball idea Trelawney might be working on. No. He didn't want to go there.

"Professor Trelawney is brilliant, you know," Lavender said as her smile turned unholy. "I'll get Hermione."

Soon after Lavender disappeared into the common room, the Fat Lady's portrait swung forward again, and Hermione rushed toward Harry, wrapping her arms around him and squeezing him for everything she was worth.

"Ron and I have been frantic, Harry. You vanished after you left the Hogwarts Express with Professor McGonagall yesterday, and we've had no idea what you've been up to. Dumbledore has you cooped up in some little room down on the sixth floor, hasn't he?"

"Only until Malfoy and I can come up with some potion that counteracts the effect I have on the male students. You saw on the train yesterday how Malfoy was the only one who wasn't affected. That's why I have to work on the project with him. The project hasn't gone that badly so far. We've narrowed the counteragent down to cinnamon. We think that had to have been the active ingredient in your recipe for tapioca pudding."

"As a matter of fact, yes, my recipe does call for some cinnamon." Hermione shook her head and gave Harry a look of utmost compassion. "A Potions project with Malfoy. How horrid."

Harry couldn't help but smile, but he kept his eyes on the floor. "Malfoy's not that bad to work with, at least when his nasty Slytherin pals aren't around to egg him on. In Potions class, we were always trying to one-up each other. He had to show off to his friends, and I guess I did the same thing." Harry lifted his head and looked straight at Hermione. "It's strange now that it's just the two of us working alone, but little by little he's transforming into someone who's almost… tolerable. He hasn't called you 'Mudblood' once yet."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Lovely. I'm delighted to hear his manners have improved, but we've got more important things to think about, namely, finding out what spell it is that someone cast on you. I spent some time at the library today doing research. I came across a few spells that cause the victim to radiate sexual attraction, but the requirements didn't match your case. I think, though, there might be other leads that I can follow up on—"

"You don't have to follow up on anything." No better time than now to spill the truth. "Dumbledore asked Malfoy and me to see him this evening."

Harry took a deep breath. "Hermione, I'm not under a spell. Dumbledore showed me family records for my maternal grandmother. I knew she was from France, but my Aunt Petunia never told me much more than that. Dumbledore got the information about my grandmother from people he knows at Beauxbatons. Just before Malfoy and I left his office, Dumbledore showed me pictures, genealogical charts, birth certificates, everything. Fleur Delacour and I are second cousins; my grandmother and her grandmother were sisters."

"That's nice, Harry. You and Fleur got on well enough during the Triwizard Tournament. But I don't see what that has to do with…" Hermione's face went pale as the truth struck her full force. "Oh, dear God." Her voice had become a whisper. "Are you telling me that—"

"Yeah. That was the Veela side of her family. Our grandmothers were full-blooded Veela."

Hermione studied Harry as though she were seeing him for the first time. "You're one-quarter Veela." Hermione's expression turned thoughtful. "That would explain a lot."

"Hey, 'Mione? I'd rather that the only people who knew about the Veela thing were you, Ron and Malfoy, at least for now. I don't think it would do any good for the whole school to know."

"Harry"—Hermione's eyes went wide—"you know you can trust us."

"Yeah," Harry said, "I know." Harry rummaged through his backpack. "Could you ask Ron to meet me in ten minutes. How about outside the Room of Requirement? I don't want anyone eavesdropping. We've still got plenty of time before curfew. Here—" Having found what he was looking for in his backpack, Harry produced a pumpkin pasty. "A snack for Ron"—Harry smiled—"with a sprinkling of cinnamon on top… just in case."

Hermione giggled, but then stifled her giggling out of propriety. "Ron is embarrassed beyond belief about how he behaved with you yesterday on the Hogwarts Express." Hermione smothered another series of giggles. "You know, the way he was kissing you and groping you and whatnot. I'm sure a bit of cinnamon is a good idea." She took the pumpkin pasty from Harry. "All right, I'll tell Ron to meet you outside the Room of Requirement in ten minutes."

Hermione looked back at Harry before disappearing into the Gryffindor common room. "Make sure you keep us up with everything that's happening, Harry. After all, you're confined to a Potions classroom for most of the day with no one but Malfoy. It just seems so… unhealthy."

Harry made his way to the Room of Requirement, and in less than five minutes he caught sight of a headful of red hair coming toward him, brightening the gloom of the corridor. Hair that color could only belong to one individual.

"Harry, mate." Ron rushed up to Harry. "Hermione told me about the whole Veela thing and how cinnamon is supposed to stop the effects."

"You ate the pumpkin pasty, didn't you?"

"Yeah." A smile crept over Ron's face, and his cheeks went pinker than usual. "Sorry about how I acted on the train yesterday."

"I guess you didn't do anything that Seamus, Boot, Zabini and Goyle didn't do," Harry said. Somehow, that information didn't ease Ron's embarrassment.

"At least it's not a spell," Ron said, determined to look on the bright side. "It's just your nature. What I mean is… er… I guess you were born that way."

"You don't think the Veela thing is weird?"

"No, Harry. I'd never think of you as anything but my best mate." Ron rested his hand on Harry's shoulder. "I've been worried about you. You're all by yourself down on the sixth floor, and Hermione told me you're stuck with Malfoy all day. That bloody evil ferret?"

"Ron, he's not that bad. Everyone's always trying to impress each other with this house rivalry routine, but when it's just Malfoy and me, he's not a bad sort. You'd be shocked."

Ron's eyebrows scrunched together into a single line, and he lifted his chin in a show of defiance.

"I wouldn't shake that git's hand if he were the last person on the face of the earth."

Harry recognized that look of pride on Ron's face and the macho bravura. It reminded him of someone else, and Harry was seized by the urge to laugh.

"Sometimes"—there was that shining, open-mouth smile of Harry's again—"you and Malfoy are so much alike."

"Harry, that's not even funny. Come on, let's go into the Room of Requirement. Never know who's lurking around in the corridors."

Ron opened the door to the Room of Requirement to reveal a very small vestibule with a second inner door a few feet beyond the outer door. In the center of the tiny space stood a wooden lectern. On the lectern lay a parchment with a title in ornate script:

**Sign-In Sheet**

**Entrance Is Magically Locked—No Entry Without Reading Terms and Conditions and Signing Below**

Ron tried the inner door, but found it impossible to open.

"Ridiculous," Ron said. "This is the first time the Room of Requirement has ever given anyone a hard time. I mean, what the hell? The Room of Requirement has requirements now?"

Harry and Ron read the text underneath the title:

· · · · · · All visitors must write down the amount of time they plan to spend inside.  
· · · · · · Choose the amount of time carefully. You will not be allowed to exit  
· · · · · · before the stated period of time is over. Sign at the bottom.

Harry looked at Ron and shrugged. "I guess the Room of Requirement is in a fussy mood today. Curfew's not until nine o'clock. How about half an hour?"

"Sounds good," Ron said. They signed and Ron wrote down "30 minutes" above their signatures.

The first thing Harry and Ron noticed as soon as they stepped inside the Room of Requirement was the music. An oboe and piano were playing a melody that Ron decided was much more sentimental than necessary. Harry and Ron then noticed that the floor underneath them became softer, first resembling the surface of a mattress, and then transforming again into something more like a down-filled comforter.

Ron scowled. "What in blazes is going on with the Room of Requirement?"

The music became even more objectionable as the soppy oboe and piano duet was now joined by tubular bells and wind chimes.

"Listen, Ron. Let's just ignore the stupid music. I've got something important to show you." Harry reached into his backpack and pulled out the wooden board he and Draco had been using to communicate with the Eastern Shore Network. "Trelawney made all the students in Divination class, including Malfoy, create one of these. She said it was supposed to provide everyone with help from the spirit world while they took notes."

Ron laughed. "Sounds like one of Trelawney's idiotic ideas."

"Yeah, but I think it depends on what you attach to the top of the board. Trelawney told everyone to get a small object that has some significance for them and use an attaching charm to secure the object to the board. Malfoy had a small stone sculpture of an ancient temple. Someone in his family got it in Lebanon back in the 18th century. By accident, we used the board to write down some notes we were taking while we were working on a potion. And someone answered us."

"Answered you? How?"

Harry took a blank piece of parchment out of his backpack. "All right, I'll show you." He started writing on the parchment:

· · · · · · · · · This is Harry. Can I communicate with the Eastern Shore Network?"

In front of Ron's astonished eyes, the words Harry had written vanished and were replaced by a reply.

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • Why Harry, we're always delighted to here from you. We notice that your present transmission is coming from a magically activated space. Since you're a magical creature, at least partially, and you've passed your sixteenth birthday, we need to warn you that magical spaces, such as the one you're in at the moment, can react to a magical creature like you in unpredictable ways, so please exercise extreme caution. • • •

"Ron," Harry said, "that must be why the Room of Requirement made us sign our names on that parchment. And maybe it has something to do with this god-awful music." The music was becoming more excessive: a precious flute solo pushed its way into the mix.

Harry wrote a final note on the parchment:

· · · · · · · · · Thanks for talking with me tonight. Malfoy and I will be working on our Potions project tomorrow. Is it all right if we contact you for help?

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • We're happy to help in any way we can. Good night and pleasant dreams. • • •

Ron watched the last message disappear into the parchment, then managed to get out a few words. "Who _are_ these people?"

"They're not people. They're spirits—an association of spirits. They told Malfoy and I that they were wizards when they were alive, but that was thousands of years ago. They call themselves the Eastern Shore Network," Harry said as he put the wooden board in his backpack. "The information they were supplying yesterday was amazing. They were the ones who told Malfoy and I about cinnamon being the counteragent when people are around Veela. Tomorrow, when we put the final potion together—"

Harry never got to finish his sentence. The entire floor, with the exception of a small area in the center of the vast room that Harry and Ron were in, shifted upwards until it was diagonal rather than horizontal. The upheaval sent Harry and Ron tumbling into the small area in the center of the room, which was transforming into a red heart-shaped bed. Ron scrambled up the soft down-filled surface that was the diagonal floor, attempting to reach the door.

"Maybe the door will open," Ron shouted to Harry, who was still lying on the heart-shaped bed. "You try to contact the Eastern Shore people and ask if they can think of anything to get us out of here."

Ron tried the doorknob without success, then threw his weight against the door with as much force as he could. Small lights in the middle of the door snapped on, illuminating a sign:

**Exit not permitted. Your allotted time has not yet expired.**

While Ron's efforts were failing, Harry used the wooden board to scribble down a few hasty words on a piece of parchment.

· · · · · · · · · Hi, Eastern Shore Network. This is Harry. I need assistance because I'm here with my friend, Ron, in the Room of Requirement, and the room is acting psychotic. What do we do?"

Harry received a most unfortunate reply.

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • Eastern Shore Network will be unavailable during the next one-hour period due to routine network maintenance. Please contact us later. We apologize for any inconvenience. • • •

"Ron," Harry shouted, "I can't get though to the Eastern Shore Network. I got a message that said the network is unavailable for the next hour. I don't even know what they mean by network maintenance."

Ron didn't have a chance to reply since the door he tried to force open took exception to Ron's actions and shoved him backwards, which sent him rolling down the slope of the now diagonal floor. He landed directly on top of Harry. After fumbling and maneuvering over each other, Harry and Ron arranged themselves on the red heart-shaped bed. A great arch with a shining multi-colored surface emerged from somewhere beyond the edge of the room and rose far above Harry and Ron, who now observed that the ceiling of the room had been replaced by the night sky, complete with a legion of stars and a full moon. The multi-colored arch bore a message in enormous neon letters:

**Welcome to the Room of Requirement "Lovers' Hideaway Resort"**

The music selection this evening is "Cheesy Romantic Music for Making Out—The Ultimate Collection"

Ron looked around frantically. "This is fucking horrible."

Although the music was already driving Harry to distraction, it deteriorated further. A full orchestral arrangement, dominated by violins, had taken over. But the worst was yet to come. A choir of backup singers added the finishing touch—no lyrics, just a melodic series of tasteless oohs and aahs. The music, however, proved to be the least of Harry and Ron's problems. The bed itself was creating further indignities. The surface of the bed no longer felt like a mattress.

"What's wrong with this bed?" Ron asked in complete innocence. "It feels like it's filled with water." Since he was raised in a pureblood wizarding family, Ron was unfamiliar with Muggle customs.

"I think Muggles put these kinds of beds in resorts and motels where couples go to… er…" Harry blushed without finishing.

Before Ron could even react, the bed began to vibrate. Each time Harry and Ron moved away from each other toward the outer edge of the bed, the sides of the bed snapped up, flinging Harry and Ron back on top of each other in the center of the bed. After a seeming eternity, the bed, walls, floor, night sky—everything—disappeared, and Harry and Ron found themselves back in front of the inner door from which they had entered the Room of Requirement. A sign on the door was flashing a message in colored lights:

**Your 30 minute time period has expired.**

**Thank you for staying at the Room of Requirement "Lovers' Hideaway Resort."**

**Please visit us again sometime soon.**

Harry grabbed his backpack and opened the door. "Let's get out of here."

Safely back in the seventh-floor corridor, Harry and Ron noticed that the front pockets of their pants were full. They reached into their pockets, and each of them pulled out two plastic squeeze tubes that were bright purple in color. The labels on the tubes read:

**Lovers' Hideaway Resort—Personal Lubricant**

"Hey, Harry," Ron said, stuffing his complimentary lubricant samples back in his pockets, "didn't the Eastern Shore spirits warn us that magical spaces like the Room of Requirement could react to Veela in crazy ways?" Ron gave Harry a sidelong glance. "This Veela thing can get dangerous."

* º * º *

The following morning, Harry woke up determined to figure out why his Veela instincts kept pushing him in Draco's direction. Hadn't Fleur told Dumbledore that what happened between Harry and Draco on the Hogwarts Express could be random and irrelevant? That should be the end of it, but it wasn't. When Draco walked him back to his room on the sixth floor, cornered him and took a fistful of Harry's robes in his grip—and edged in so close to Harry that he could feel Draco's breath caress his face—Harry was in heaven. He had wished Draco would just keep him pinned in the corner of that torch-lit corridor all night. As much as it alarmed him, Harry's obsession with Draco showed no signs of diminishing.

After a solitary breakfast in his room, Harry headed toward the library even more rattled than he had been the day before. The library was still deserted when Harry arrived, since it was well before Hogwarts students ate their communal breakfast in the Great Hall. Draco had installed himself at a table in the northwest corner and was engrossed in a volume titled _The Veela Mystique: Why Veela Are So Hot in the Sack._ When he saw Harry approach, he snapped the book shut and threw a few other books on top of it.

"Morning, Potter. I've gathered a few volumes together, just some general resources about Veela. I've been looking for any mention of spices as a counteragent for Veela attraction, but the only information I found was about some unsuccessful attempts to use herbs to create a long-lasting potion." Draco slid a few books along the table toward Harry. "Here are a few books for you to take a look at. We can read them today while we're waiting for the potions to finish brewing."

Harry took the books, and then he opened his backpack and returned Draco's wooden communication board. "Thanks for trusting me with this," Harry said with a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

Later that morning, Harry and Draco were finishing a potion using cinnamon that they hoped would have long-lasting effects, and Harry had a chance to flip through the volumes Draco had gotten in the library while the potion was in the final stages of brewing.

"I've been reading this article you mentioned in the library," Harry said, "the one about the failed herbal potions, but the author cites the results of work by other wizards, and I'm having trouble finding any mention of the earlier experiments." Several open books lay jumbled in front of Harry.

"Keep reading. Professor Snape's Potions class is letting out. I think we're ready to test the final results using our guinea pig from yesterday." Draco poured a small portion of the finished potion from the cauldron into a cheerful-looking mug. "You hide behind the cabinet," Draco said, pointing to the tall storage cabinet in the back of the classroom, "and I'll be right back with Blaise."

When Draco entered the classroom again with Blaise in tow, he brought Blaise directly over to the table with the potion ingredient.

"Remember the dessert recipes Potter and I were testing out yesterday for the house-elves?" Draco handed Blaise the mug. "Test this out. This is the new dessert selection Potter and I created. It's like hot cocoa, except with cinnamon."

Blaise took a big gulp and grimaced. "It's awful. You should have stuck with the pumpkin pasty recipe from yesterday."

"Hey, Harry." Draco was wearing a cheerful expression as he walked toward the storage cabinet Harry was hiding behind, but as soon as Draco came into his line of vision, Harry frantically waved his hand back and forth and shook his head. Draco couldn't fathom what Harry was fussing about. Now Harry was holding up an open book, one of the volumes Draco had gotten in the library. Harry had a desperate look on his face as he pointed to the page that the book was open to, but Draco ignored him.

"Come on, Harry, Blaise just tried out our dessert recipe." Draco smiled, took Harry by the arm and hauled him out from behind the cabinet. "I think we might have to add more sugar, though."

Blaise took one look at Harry and said, "Hey, beautiful, where've you been hiding?" He was across the room with his arms around Harry in seconds, causing Harry to drop the book on the floor.

"Read the paragraphs I circled," Harry managed to get out before Blaise attempted to explore Harry's mouth with his tongue.

Draco took Harry's instructions seriously now and retrieved the book to see what Harry was talking about. The sentences Harry had circled jumped out at him:

Some experimental potions have been recently developed using various cooking spices as a possible counteragent to control the sexual magnetism that Veela discharge. After a number of unsuccessful attempts, cinnamon was found to be effective for a period of up to 12 hours. However, the success of these attempts was short-lived. All subjects who consumed cinnamon and then came into contact with Veela developed a tolerance to cinnamon by the third such dose. Cinnamon shielded the subjects from Veela sexual magnetism for a 12-hour period only after the first two doses. After the third dose, and all subsequent doses, no effect at all was recorded. This was observed for all participants, across the board.

"Everyone develops a tolerance to cinnamon"—Draco was coming to grips with the extent of the failure—"and it happens after only using it twice? On the third try, cinnamon is useless. Oh, shit."

By the time Draco had finished reading, Harry was using a chair to try to climb onto the storage cabinet in his efforts to evade Blaise's attentions, but Blaise had much the same idea and was now positioning the chair next to the cabinet.

Draco raced out into the corridor and was overcome with relief to see Snape just outside his Potions classroom, speaking to a student.

"Professor Snape," Draco shouted from the doorway, "we need your immediate assistance."

Snape made his way down the corridor at a brisk pace, and as he entered Harry and Draco's classroom, he was treated to the sight of Blaise Zabini standing on a chair and fondling Harry's crotch and bum, Harry being unable to escape since he was sitting on top of the storage cabinet.

Snape had his wand out at once. "Mr. Zabini, kindly leave. This classroom is off limits to you."

Blaise recognized the no-nonsense look on Snape's face and took the hint. Once Blaise was booted out, Snape rounded on Harry and Draco.

"Seeing as Mr. Zabini was in the process of molesting Mr. Potter high atop a storage cabinet, I suppose it's safe to assume that the two of you have been less than successful in your efforts. Under the circumstances, that doesn't surprise me. Mr. Potter, the Headmaster has informed me of your Veela family history, which complicates matters considerably. Professor Dumbledore has asked the faculty members to keep this information private for the time being… and God knows, I don't blame him." Snape now noticed the bottle of cinnamon on the worktable next to the potion beakers. His eyes glazed over, and he pressed his fingers to his temples in a seeming effort to dispel a headache. "Can someone please tell me what a bottle of cinnamon from the Hogwarts kitchen is doing here?"

"We were using cinnamon," Draco said, "as a counteragent for the sexual attraction that Veela generate. It was my idea. We eliminated the usual ingredients for tapioca pudding, and I suggested that there might have been a spice Granger used in her recipe."

"A spice used in cooking?" Snape was incredulous. "In what absurd technique would any rational wizard use a cooking spice as a potion ingredient? Do you imagine that this is a culinary institute? But please, do continue, Mr. Malfoy."

"We achieved some success on the first try—"

Draco handed Snape the book Harry had been reading, opened to the article that described how useless cinnamon was after the second dose.

Snape skimmed the article, then offered his scathing summary: "And the third attempt results in dismal failure, as I would well expect."

"But Professor Snape"—Harry had the brightest smile on his face—"you have to admit that Malfoy's logic was brilliant." Harry moved next to Draco, continuing to defend him. "Malfoy helped me yesterday with my idea from the experiment for reducing the calories in dessert recipes. And his idea today about cinnamon sounded even better, I mean, more scientific."

Harry and Draco stood shoulder-to-shoulder defending their project, an unshakable alliance. Snape couldn't decide which was more disquieting, their unorthodox methods or their growing camaraderie.

"Are the two of you engaged in a contest to see which of you can devise the most outlandish Potions experiment?"

"I did have another idea," Draco offered, "something that doesn't involve Potions, but we would only use it as a last resort."

Draco opened his backpack and pulled out a purple jumpsuit made of polyester double-knit fabric. The jumpsuit was embellished with a pattern of green shamrocks, and the outfit appeared to be about Harry's size. The sleeves were long and had absurdly wide flares at the wrist. The pants, however, were neither full-length nor knee-length, but rather an odd in-between length, as though someone were meant to wear this jumpsuit while walking barefoot through ankle-high water without getting the pants wet. The legs of the pants were bell-shaped at the bottom, with fluted hems.

"I got the most revolting piece of clothing I could find for Potter to wear." Draco held the jumpsuit up next to Harry. "I'm convinced that this would be an effective deterrent against unwanted romantic attention. If Potter put this on, only a madman would find him attractive."

Harry glared hard at Draco. "I am not wearing that."

Draco draped his arm around Harry's shoulder, smiling gently. "Not even to make our project a success?"

Harry held his ground. "Not even for a Medal of Honor from the Ministry of Magic."

"Why have I been saddled with mentoring this project?" Snape asked, more to himself than to Harry and Draco. "Perhaps I committed some vile crime and the authorities Obliviated me. I don't remember what my crime was, but I'm being punished for it anyway."

"We'll keep working at it," Draco said. "I know we'll come up with something."

"It is my fervent wish," Snape replied, "that we won't have to depend on the two of you to offer up another one of your… ideas. That is why I have taken matters into my own hands. As you both may know, I supervised a potion-making session on Sunday evening, after Mr. Potter's unconventional arrival on the Hogwarts Express."

Harry blushed, remembering the grand entrance that the Hogwarts Express made, courtesy of his many male admirers.

"The purpose of that meeting," Snape continued, "was to develop individual potions for the male faculty members, potions which would counteract any romantic attraction Mr. Potter might unwittingly send their way. What the two of you may not be aware of is that I used a single drop of blood from each faculty member in preparing the various potions. The blood carries unique information, which is why each potion protects only one specific individual against Veela attraction. Clearly, it would be impossible to create individual potions such as this for every male student at Hogwarts."

Snape paused, and his eyes narrowed as he looked over at Harry.

"I have been conducting research over the past two days to develop a more versatile potion, but one which is specifically designed for you, Mr. Potter. By this, I mean that anyone could consume the potion, and it would guard against the unique powers of attraction you generate. I will require two things from you, Mr. Potter, in order to complete the potion. The first is a drop of your blood, which I can collect from you now." Snape reached into the pocket of his robe and retrieved a tiny glass phial, which he placed on the worktable. "The second item I need is an object, a personal belonging, which you have had for many years, preferably since early childhood. Can you think of any such object you could provide?"

Harry thought for a moment, then said, "There's a toy I've had since I was four years old, but it's at my uncle's house."

"That will do nicely. Professor Dumbledore and I will make arrangements for you to travel to your uncle's house over the weekend. The potion I am creating relies on the lunar cycle, so it's vital that I finish the potion and activate it on the evening of the new moon; that would be the twelfth of the month, nine days from now. If you visit your uncle and aunt this weekend, I will have plenty of time to use the object you provide me with and complete the potion. And now, Mr. Potter, if you will use a clean knife from the drawer and place a drop of your blood in the glass phial."

After Snape had left with the blood sample, Harry and Draco decided to start over with a very basic love potion, then add some reversing agents they hadn't thought of before. They were letting ingredients brew and leafing through the books Draco had brought from the library when they heard a knock at the door.

"Mr. Potter? Mr. Malfoy?" The door was still ajar, and the soft voice drifted into the classroom—a curious, other-worldly voice.

The clinking sound of dozens of metal bangles filled the room as Sybill Trelawney glided through the doorway. Several shawls made of silk and cotton gauze draped her frame, although in some places it was difficult to see the gauze material because so many sequins were attached.

"Just a minute," she said in a hushed whisper. "I'll bring in my equipment."

Professor Trelawney raised her wand, pointed it toward the door, and her equipment came through the doorway, floating in the air: an antique wooden chair with a folded-up down comforter on the seat. Harry and Draco exchanged uncomprehending looks. The strange chair landed on the ground in the center of the classroom.

"Mr. Potter"—Trelawney's eyes were bright with excitement—"Lavender spoke with you yesterday evening, so you already know I've been carrying out my own research concerning your…" She giggled for a moment, finding it awkward to discuss sexual matters. "Yes, your Veela-related difficulties."

Harry remembered being in the corridor outside the Gryffindor common room, not knowing the current password and trying to think of a way to get a message to Hermione. By a stroke of luck, Lavender had happened by, and before she went inside with Harry's message, she had told him Trelawney was cooking up some sort of counterspell for Harry's Veela magnetism. Harry had put it out of his mind, preferring not to take suggestions from the teacher who was forever predicting that catastrophe, or perhaps untimely death, would befall him.

"Yeah"—Harry gave Trelawney a suspicious look—"Lavender mentioned something about that."

Trelawney waved her hand at the wooden chair in a grand gesture. "This is a genuine seidr chair from medieval Sweden."

"A what-kind-of chair?" Draco asked.

"Seidr is the form of wizardry that was practiced in ancient Scandinavia," she explained. "This chair is an artifact from the Middle Ages. Just look at the runic carvings that cover the back of the chair. I was fortunate to have obtained this chair from colleagues in Sweden." With a flick of her wand, Trelawney caused the down comforter to fly up into the air, unfold itself and settle down over the back and seat.

Settling herself into the seat of the chair, Trelawney said, "The witch sits in the chair"—she raised her wand, and the seidr chair levitated two feet off the ground and hovered in mid-air—"and uses her wand as a steering mechanism."

She turned the floating chair to the right, then to the left, with movements of her wand.

"Once the chair is positioned in the air to her liking, the witch goes into a trance, during which the magical purpose of her spell is accomplished. In the case of my counterspell, Mr. Potter, the purpose is to call forth the spirits of the swamp. I will do this since the legends of many countries have all given evidence that swampland is sacred to Veela."

Harry listened unwillingly, first to Trelawney and next to Draco.

"Come to think of it," Draco said, "swamps and marshes and such are the native habitat for Veela. I remember reading that pureblood Veela have handy little fairy wings, so they can flit around over the swamp without getting too wet—"

"OK, thanks, Malfoy." The muscles in Harry's jaw were quite visible. "You know a lot about magical creatures. We'll take your word for it." Harry was reminded that Draco simply had to put in his two pence worth. Sometimes Draco's wit was charming, other times not.

Trelawney was eager to continue. "Gentlemen, I'm convinced that my invocation of the swamp spirits will bring Mr. Potters's Veela powers of romantic attraction under control."

"Let her give it a try, Potter. What have we to lose?"

Seated in the seidr chair, Trelawney stretched her arms out wide and let loose with an ungodly cry.

"O spirits of the swamp!" Trelawney's metal bangles clanked furiously. "I hear the gurgling of the sacred primeval mud!" Harry could hear Draco cackling in the background.

She now modulated her voice, attaining a low, sultry tone.

"I call upon you to restore calm and peace to the male population, which has been so sorely afflicted by the Veela charms of our beloved Harry Potter."

Trelawney's cries were working their way up to a new crescendo.

"O swamp spirits, you have imbued Harry Potter with far too much romantic magnetism."

Trelawney uttered one more shriek, summarizing her intent.

"Spirits of the swamp, we beseech you! For the love of Merlin, give it a rest!" This last was followed by incantations Trelawney shouted in a jumbled mix of Latin and Swedish.

The door to the classroom opened further, pushed by the soft mass of a mushy, bright green substance that Harry and Draco recognized as the algae that covered much of the bogland near Hogwarts Lake. No one even had time to be alarmed about the algae spreading across the floor; the door was knocked down, clean off its hinges, by tall, vertical plants. Harry, Draco and Sybill Trelawney snapped their heads around in unison to regard these intimidating members of the plant kingdom as they shattered the door into splinters. After they forced their way through the door by destroying it, it was clear what type of plants they were: wild bulrushes that had tall, erect, pointed stems that reached a height of eight feet. Tufts of small white and brown flowers were held on the ends of the stems. The bulrushes encircled the seidr chair Trelawney was sitting in and lifted the chair and Trelawney up closer toward the ceiling.

"The steering mechanism doesn't work!" Trelawney screamed, frantically waving her wand in an effort to control the position of the chair.

Harry and Draco were about to come to Trelawney's aid when their attention was captured by the entrance into the classroom of dozens of giant water lily pads attached to long stems. The lily pads displayed a bright green color, and the circular shape of each was interrupted by a narrow cut-out section. The missing circle sector—the shape of a pie slice—allowed the huge green pads to flex and contort with the dexterity of a human hand, and their first targets were Harry's arms and legs. Harry was freeing his arm from one giant water lily pad when another was wrapping itself around his leg. Draco dashed in and, in a single concentrated effort, tore the enormous circular leaf from Harry's leg. The two boys grabbed their backpacks and rushed out the door, pursued by the giant water lilies, which were trailing their massive stems along with them. They heard Trelawney's wild screams behind them, and they stumbled on the stairs leading out of the dungeons long enough to see Trelawney unwillingly enthroned on her airborne seidr chair and surrounded by aggressive-looking bulrushes. Trelawney, the seidr chair and an escort of massive bulrushes were flying after Harry and Draco just as fast as the giant water lilies.

Harry and Draco raced up staircase after staircase, sprinted though corridor after corridor. They were met by the occasional gaggle of students and teachers who were drawn into the corridors by the commotion, although the bystanders fled back into the classrooms at the sight of monstrous water lilies hurtling through the air not far behind Harry and Draco. The boys were outpacing the water lilies, but Trelawney's chair, guarded by the territorial bulrushes, picked up speed and flew past Harry and Draco.

In a desperate move, Trelawney reached out her arms as her chair flew near a medieval suit of armor holding a spear. She grabbed the spear, and the suit of armor dragged along for a while, knocking about along the stone floor of the castle and falling apart piece by piece. But Trelawney had the spear, by God, and her speedy seidr chair was now leading the flying parade. She made a futile attempt to fight the bulrushes with the spear before she gave up and began yelling some of her previous incantations. In her distraught frame of mind, Trelawney had forgotten most of the Latin, and she lifted her spear high in the air and screamed—or perhaps sang—those verses of the incantation she remembered, mostly in Swedish. Even in the midst of running, and helping Harry fight off the attacking water lilies, Draco couldn't help thinking that Trelawney was only lacking a Viking helmet with horns.

Screaming students and faculty members escaping the mayhem were now a common sight. Harry seemed to be choosing the direction now, and Draco felt Harry take hold of his wrist and yank him around a corner. Draco realized they had arrived at Harry's small room, the temporary living quarters on the sixth floor that Dumbledore had set aside for Harry. The two of them bolted through the door, giving Harry just enough time to get his wand out of a drawer, magically lock the door and set up every kind of ward he could think of, although he could still hear the monster water lilies banging against the door.

Draco reached inside his backpack and pulled out the wooden board he had created for Trelawney's Divination class, the one he and Harry had been using to communicate with the Eastern Shore Network. Draco snatched a blank piece of parchment from Harry's desk and began writing:

This is Draco Malfoy, and I'm trying to contact the Eastern Shore Network. I'm here with Harry Potter and we're inside his room. Our deranged Divination professor was trying to lessen Potter's powers of romantic attraction, but she invoked gigantic swamp vegetation instead, and the plant life is just outside Potter's room trying to break down the door at the moment. The situation is urgent. Please help. 


	7. The Color of Paradise

**Title: **Congenital Magnetism  
**Author: **Ascyltus  
**Completed: **Yes  
**Summary: **At the end of his fifth year, Harry displays his effortless knack for landing himself in problematic situations. Luckily, Harry begins to develop some unusual abilities that he has inherited by virtue of being one-quarter Veela. Only Draco Malfoy seems to be immune to Harry's newly found powers.  
**Disclaimer: **This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Chapter 7: The Color of Paradise**

Harry and Draco had taken refuge in the sixth-floor room that Dumbledore had set aside for Harry as temporary sleeping quarters, but they could still hear occasional pounding against the door from the gigantic water lilies that had been chasing Harry. Draco was already holding the communication device he'd created for Divination class, the wooden board with the small bas-relief stone sculpture attached to the top. He'd written a desperate plea for help and watched as the ink faded and disappeared, hoping the spirits from the Eastern Shore Network would answer. To his vast relief, a message spread across the parchment:

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • Sounds like an unusual predicament, but a few of the spirits in our association are familiar with Herbology, and they can recommend a solution that requires a spell for pruning plants; any basic spell will do. To maximize the effect of the spell, you have to incorporate the name and address of a florist that you're familiar with, as well as the name of a recipient for your floral gift, preferably the person who is providing you with the most assistance at the moment. • • •

Draco drew a blank. "Potter, what's a florist?"

"A florist is a Muggle business that sells flowers. When Muggles need flowers for some formal event, like a wedding or an anniversary party, they pay a florist to make an arrangement of flowers for them."

"I've never heard of anything like that. Malfoy Manor is surrounded by woodland and meadow. There are plenty of flowers if you ever need them, and the house-elves can create whatever kind of arrangement you want."

"That's because your family is rich, Malfoy. I grew up in a suburban house where we only have a small front yard and backyard. I remember the address of a Muggle florist in Little Whinging. And I think we'd better address the floral gift to Professor Snape. Something tells me we might be in trouble again."

The giant water lilies renewed their banging on the door of Harry's room. Draco wrote a quick reply to the Eastern Shore Network:

· · · · · · · · · We have the address of a florist. What do we do now?

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • Recite whatever plant-pruning spell you're familiar with, then add the address for the florist, followed by a few words to your recipient—something like "Best wishes to so-and-so." • • •

Harry retrieved his Herbology notes from his desk drawer, and the room was filled with the hopeful voices of Harry and Draco. First came some Latin incantations, then "Sow Thistle Florist, 241 Underpass Road, Little Whinging, Surrey," followed by a brief message, and finally, "Best wishes to you, Professor Snape. Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy."

The banging on the door ceased, followed by a long silence. Harry and Draco crept toward the door. They hesitated, unsure of the success of their spell, and then Harry opened the door in one rash movement to reveal…

On the floor just outside the door sat a small ceramic bowl filled with water. Dainty little bulrushes lined the perimeter of the bowl, and a single water lily in full bloom floated in the center. Stuck in the middle of the little bulrushes was a greeting card with best wishes for Professor Snape, who was now charging down the corridor toward Harry's room, black robes billowing behind him. The scowling countenance of Severus Snape had arrived in front of the open door. Harry and Draco looked at each other, trying to think of some plausible explanation for the present disorder.

"I am here," Snape said, "at the request of a large number of students and faculty members who have been recently terrorized by enormous water lilies flying through the school. Mr. Potter"—Snape's visage darkened—"could you be responsible for this?"

Before he could think the better of it, Draco threw his arm around Harry's shoulder and drew him closer. "It was Professor Trelawney's idea. It wasn't Potter's fault at all."

"Yes, Mr. Malfoy, I'm aware of Professor Trelawney's ill-advised attempt to lessen the effects of Mr. Potter's Veela magnetism. Not long ago, she was found, in a confused state, on the grounds in front of the castle seated in an ornate wooden chair. She was ranting about Mr. Potter being inappropriately sexy and causing the immanent collapse of polite society. The seventh-year students who found Professor Trelawney coaxed her back into the castle, although she continued to ramble on about the magic of willowy bog plants influencing the color of Mr. Potter's eyes and the contours of his body. Professor Trelawney is now in the hospital wing, where Madam Pomfrey is attending her."

"Professor," Harry ventured, "we were able to get the giant water lilies under control." Harry picked the ceramic bowl up off the floor and handed it to Snape. "We used a pruning spell from Herbology class."

Snape held up his floral gift. "I presume this is all that remains of the monster water lilies?" Harry and Draco nodded. Snape read the message on the greeting card aloud. "Scientific inquiry can be fun. Best wishes to you, Professor Snape. Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy."

Snape regarded the two boys, the twin sources of yet another major disruption. Snape's eyes narrowed and his eyebrows knitted together into a single line.

"How very thoughtful of you both. Fortunately for us all, Professor Trelawney will be unable to test out any more of her theories for the time being, which affords me some sense of relief. But then I think of the recent fiascos that the two of you have given birth to. Mr. Potter, I believe your effort came first, the experiment using a bogus technique meant for reducing the calorie content of desserts, which resulted in the appearance of enormous jungle vines crashing through most of the classrooms in the dungeons. That disaster was followed by your cinnamon remedy, Mr. Malfoy. Your flawed insight led you to use a cooking spice, of all things, as a long-term remedy for Veela attraction. And as to any measure of success, the two of you have only succeeded in whitening several more hairs on my head."

Snape let loose a long, steady sigh. "Mr. Potter, as I've told you, the personalized potion I'm creating to counteract your unique Veela powers requires an object that has been in your possession for many years. Can you assure me you will do at least one thing correctly and travel to your uncle's house this weekend to retrieve the personal belonging you promised to provide me with? If I remember correctly, you said the object was a childhood toy."

"It's a toy train engine. I'll have it for you by Sunday, Professor."

"Then for the next three school days, the two of you may continue your project in the separate Potions classroom where you've been working. I suspect it's madness for me to say this, but I will leave the two of you to your own devices. I know from unfortunate experience what folly it is to expect you two to rely on conventional methods. I'm imploring you to at least use some modicum of common sense and refrain from either causing massive property damage or endangering life and limb."

"Don't worry," Draco said with a smile.

Snape clutched the ceramic bowl containing his floral gift as he turned to head back down the corridor. "Mr. Malfoy, you've convinced me that 'don't worry' are the two most suspicious words in the English language."

Harry and Draco poked their heads out the door to reassure themselves and watched Snape's black robes disappear down the corridor.

"Potter, they were right again," Draco said as soon as Snape had left.

"Who was right?"

"The people from the Eastern Shore Network."

"They're not people, they're spirits."

"All right then, spirits. Do you realize what a goldmine of information we have access to?" Draco had the wooden communication board in his hands again. "We've got to ask them some more questions. If we can put together an effective potion on our own, Professor Snape will give us the recognition we deserve. You want recognition for your growing skills in Potions class, don't you, Potter?"

"I guess it wouldn't hurt if I got better marks in Potions than I'm getting now."

Draco already had a piece of parchment on the wooden board and started scribbling away:

· · · · · · · · · This is Draco Malfoy sending a message to the Eastern Shore Network. Thanks so much for the advice about getting the swamp vegetation under control. Your instructions worked perfectly, but Potter and I have some questions about what we were working on yesterday afternoon, developing a potion to counteract erotic attraction.

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • Greetings, Mr. Malfoy. When you inquired yesterday about creating a counteragent, you told us Mr. Potter's sexual magnetism only affects the male students, correct? • • •

· · · · · · · · · That's right, even the ones who only like girls. Your suggestion about using cinnamon didn't work out that well. Everyone develops a tolerance to cinnamon after the second exposure. By the third exposure, cinnamon has no effect at all. And our Divination professor's idea about using swamp plants was a spectacular fail. Potter's Veela attraction is creating chaos around here.

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • If you'll recall from our first communication, we advised you that the effects of cinnamon were only very temporary. We're not surprised that it loses its usefulness after the second attempt. By the way, what does the word Veela mean? • • •

Draco realized he hadn't yet used the word Veela in any of his messages to Eastern Shore.

· · · · · · · · · It's our word for a magical creature with unusual powers of romantic attraction.

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • As we told you yesterday, the word in our ancient language is Qadesh, which is the title we give to a wizard who affects men in the way you describe. The word means "sacred" because people like Harry can access information from the spirit world, most often through dreams. That's why we call Harry by his given name. Very well then, we'll use your word, Veela, to describe Harry. Now, controlling Harry's Veela attraction permanently might be more complex than just using a bit of cinnamon. Harry, if you're present, may we ask why you've chosen Mr. Malfoy to assist you? • • •

Harry hesitated before taking the quill from Draco, not knowing how these spirits would respond to an honest answer.

· · · · · · · · · Hi. This is Harry. It wasn't my choice to work with Malfoy.

Harry noticed the smallest hint of a scowl cross Draco's face and realized that his remark hadn't come out the way he'd intended, so he scribbled a few more lines.

· · · · · · · · · What I meant was that I wasn't expecting to work with Malfoy, but I'm glad I am now. He's brilliant at Potions.

Harry could have sworn he saw one corner of Draco's mouth curve up, and he continued writing.

· · · · · · · · · I couldn't work with any of the female students because they complain about tiny colored pieces of sparkling glitter that they see all around me, and they say it destroys their powers of concentration after a few minutes. Our school Headmaster suggested I work with Malfoy because he's the only male student who's not experiencing anything.

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • What do you mean by "anything." • • •

Harry's face flushed pink.

· · · · · · · · · I mean that Malfoy's the only boy who's not experiencing any uncontrollable romantic attraction toward me.

After a brief pause, the Eastern Shore Network put another question to Harry:

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • Have any unusual events involving you and Mr. Malfoy occurred recently, events you may have had difficulty explaining? • • •

Harry and Draco related the events of the previous Sunday on the Hogwarts Express as best they could—the silk-like threads they felt pulling from each other's direction, the increased speed of their heartbeat. Finally, they told the Eastern Shore spirits the one thing they hadn't even admitted to Dumbledore, or to each other: every person and every object around them had frozen in place like immobile statues for several minutes even though Harry and Draco could move and look at each other. No reply from the Eastern Shore Network appeared on the parchment for the longest time.

"Have they gone on tea break?" Draco asked.

"I don't think they can drink tea… not if they don't have bodies."

Draco grinned and shook his head. "I keep thinking of them as people." But then he noticed writing appear on the parchment.

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • Sorry for the delay. Some of us here have a notion as to what might be going on. We think that your Divination professor's idea about using bog plants has more merit than we thought. Since there are apparently wetlands close to your school, we suggest that the two of you take an overnight trip and collect small plant and flower samples from the bog areas. Be sure to collect samples both during the day and at night, as there are some elusive plant species that are better seen at night.

· · · · · · · · · Mr. Malfoy, we'll give you a spell for turning a lily pad into an airborne vehicle that searches for plant life that is sacred to Veela. The spell will only take effect on a purple lily pad, which are uncommon. For your convenience, the spell is mostly in Latin, but there are a few words in Proto-Semitic. You'll have to drive this lily-pad vehicle yourself, Mr. Malfoy, since the mechanisms which control the vehicle don't respond to Veela or part-Veela. When you are back from your excursion, contact us again and we'll give you instructions for incorporating your plant and flower specimens into the potion you're developing. Good luck to you both. And Mr. Malfoy, please stop using the term "swamp." It's too derogatory. The bogs—or some call them wetlands—are regions of great beauty. We're sure you'll grow very attached to these places. They have their own special magic. • • •

The message disappeared to be replaced by the text for a spell, much of it in Latin, that was familiar to Harry and Draco. Then Harry pointed to a few words that were wildly unfamiliar.

"Do you think that's Proto-Semitic?"

Draco stared at the strange words. "They must be. The words look like they might be Arabic or Hebrew, but the spirits told us yesterday that they lived a few thousand years before the Roman Empire."

As Draco spoke, Harry watched… and lost himself in the depths of those iron-colored eyes. He memorized Draco's every feature so that he could keep the information safely stowed away in his mind, and he let his eyes prowl over iron muscles. With difficulty, Harry tore his gaze away and looked down at the floor because he was seized by the same urge to seduce Draco that had been dogging him since their meeting on the Hogwarts Express a few days before. If he didn't look Draco in the eye, maybe Draco wouldn't notice that Harry wanted nothing more than to tear Draco's clothes off and find out what those iron muscles really felt like.

Harry wouldn't look up. "So, do you still think my eyes look like the mud in a swamp?"

"I never said that, Potter."

"Don't you remember, in Dumbledore's office? You said the gurgling mud and algae in the swamps bring out the color of my eyes."

"Oh, that's right," Draco's said, his voice quieter. "Anyway, the Eastern Shore spirits told me to stop calling it a swamp. When I was a child, one of my favorite places near Malfoy Manor was a lowland bog, a kind of wet heath." Harry lifted his gaze and looked up at Draco. "The land and the plants in Wiltshire bogs are different than here in Scotland,?Draco continued, ?ut everything is so beautiful and so…" his voice hitched, but he held Harry's gaze. "Everything is so green. I suppose it's a Slytherin habit, but I've always loved that color." Draco looked away, thinking that if he didn't look Harry in the eye, maybe Harry wouldn't notice that Draco wanted nothing more than to shelter Harry in his arms and stare into those eyes until he had counted every different shade of green.

Shocked by his own unexpected train of thought, Draco rolled up the parchment with the spell the Eastern Shore spirits had written for him and headed out the door.

"See you tomorrow morning, Potter."

* º * º *

The warm morning sun found Harry and Draco miles from Hogwarts Castle. They had presented Dumbledore with their plan for collecting plant and flower specimens, although they continued to conceal their communications with the Eastern Shore Network from the Headmaster and the rest of the Hogwarts faculty; only Ron and Hermione were privy to their secret. Dumbledore had given them permission to spend two days and one night in the countryside surrounding Hogwarts and allowed them to take their brooms and wands. Draco was especially keen on having his wand with him; he was curious to find out what type of flying vehicle he could create using the spell the Eastern Shore spirits had given him.

Harry and Draco glided through the air on their brooms in a lazy pattern as they flew over the top of a hill covered with wildflowers. The other side of the hill revealed what they were searching for: the hill sloped down toward a low meadow bordering on an area of land that was saturated with moisture. Shallow pools of water dotted the land that stretched out beyond the meadow. Clusters of rushes and reeds rose up, painted with diverse shades of green and brushed with streaks of gold, and lay scattered between the shimmering patches of water.

The boys signaled each other to land on the slope of the hill, and they brought their brooms down on a patch of ground where the tall wildflowers had been flattened, perhaps by animals. Without saying anything to each other, they stood on the hillside in the warm September breeze looking out across the expanse of bog. Draco took off his backpack, threw it down, then sat down on the soft bed of grass and flowers.

"Take a break, Potter. We've plenty of time to collect specimens. After we rest here a while, we can have lunch and then we can head off." Draco rummaged through his backpack. "I think we packed everything. We've each got some phials in case some of the specimens are too wet to just throw in the backpacks. Good thing you knew a shrinking charm for the food. And you used a shrinking charm for two of those… what are those Muggle things called?"

Harry sat down beside Draco. "Sleeping bags. Muggles use them all the time when they sleep out of doors to keep themselves warm."

"We could just cast a warming charm for that."

"I'm not sure if a warming charm would last the whole night. Anyway, sleeping bags are still more comfortable than lying on the ground."

"Point taken," Draco admitted. He stretched himself out on the soft bed of wildflowers, gazing absently at the sky. "It might get chilly tonight. It's already the first week of September. There's not much summer weather left."

Harry looked out from the hillside across the flat, grassy meadow and the green expanse of bog beyond. "The land is so beautiful now. I wish it would stay this way and the winter snows never came."

"Like Arcadia?"

Harry's head popped up. "Like what?"

"Arcadia, in Greece. That's the highland area in the center of the Peloponnese."

Harry's eyes were open wide, great pools of green. "Is that the big round peninsula at the bottom of Greece?"

Draco was trying to fathom how Harry could manage to be so charming with such little effort.

"Yes, Potter. When I was a child, my father used to read me stories about ancient Greece, and Arcadia was this idyllic region. The area is mostly woods and meadow, and the weather is always mild."

"Your father didn't mind reading Muggle literature to you?"

"He always wanted to expose me to classic literature, and he certainly didn't ignore great literature just because it was Muggle." Draco sat up and reached his arms around his legs, pulling them in closer, and rested his chin on his knees. "I miss my father. God knows he's probably safer in Azkaban, what with Voldemort trying to kill him." Draco squeezed his eyes shut. "Maybe even being in Azkaban won't save my father. Voldemort is trying to figure out how to poison him in prison, but you already knew that, didn't you?"

Harry's cheeks went pink. He had no business viewing Narcissa's stored memory in Dumbledore's office. Draco had forgiven Harry for his attack of curiosity, but now Harry knew the humiliating truth that not even Draco's closest friends in Slytherin house knew: Voldemort was trying to convince Narcissa to visit Lucius in prison and bring him poisoned treacle fudge. Narcissa would deceive Voldemort as best she could by creating the appearance that she was cooperating with Voldemort, but she would only be able to string him along for so long before Voldemort realized Narcissa was playing double agent.

Harry had never known Lucius as anything other than an evil scumbag, and it shattered some of his long-held preconceptions when he heard Draco describe him as a loving father who read stories to his little boy. He couldn't bring himself to look at Draco.

"I didn't realize…" Harry's voice was hushed. "Yeah, I guess you must miss him. I can understand that. What I really miss is never having known my father. But you must have all sorts of memories of you and your father."

"I remember him holding me on his lap when I was four years old, and he had a big picture book of classical mythology spread out in front of me. The book was open to a picture of wooded hills and meadows, and the land was so green… so beautiful. And my father told me that the name of the place was Arcadia. Right after my father showed me the picture, I went to my mother and told her about the picture of Arcadia. I told her I thought it looked like heaven, so heaven must be green. Then I asked her why some people said that heaven was blue. She started laughing and told me that some Muggles were just confused because they thought heaven was in the sky, and that's why they thought heaven was blue." Draco saw Harry look up with those big damned eyes of his. "My mother told me I was right. Heaven wasn't in the sky. It was a place like Arcadia with solid ground, and the land in heaven was green." Draco forced himself to break eye contact with Harry. "But Potter, surely your uncle and aunt read stories to you when you were a child. I'm sure they doted on the Golden Boy day and night."

"Er… no, Malfoy. Whatever it is they do, they sure as hell do not dote on me."

"Your just embarrassed to tell the truth. The savior of the wizarding world? They must think you're the sun and moon and sky all in one package."

Harry gave up trying to disabuse Draco of his notions about Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia. "Yeah, whatever. All I know is that they're Muggles, and they want nothing to do with magic. But maybe that's just as well. It forced me to form my own opinions and stick to them."

"Stubbornness is your undoing, Potter. You find it so difficult to change your opinions, even when you're confronted with evidence to the contrary."

"So, Malfoy, you think you were better off with parents who insisted that you share their opinions?"

"It's a mixed blessing. My parents love me, but they have always managed to burden me with their expectations. It can be stifling to be forced to inherit your parents' views about the world and prevented from forming your own opinions."

"Their views about Voldemort, for instance?"

"Exactly. Now that my father is in prison and Voldemort has turned against my family, I'm freer to think for myself. But before, all the decisions were up to my parents. I had no choice but to do what I could to fulfill my parents' expectations. It was a source of pride for me, and why shouldn't it be?"

"Pride is _your_ undoing, Malfoy. Sometimes you have to set aside your pride if you want to strike out on your own."

"I seem to remember once—when I was eleven years old, I think—when I made an attempt to strike out on my own."

Harry heard a loud roar, like the sound of a train passing, but it had to be thunder, perhaps heralding a coming storm. Harry thought it strange, though, because he couldn't spot a single cloud.

"I guess it can even thunder on a sunny day."

"What are you on about now?" Draco asked, trying to decipher the odd remark.

"That loud, rumbling thunder just now. It was as loud as the Hogwarts Express passing by."

"Potter, the only sound I've heard until now is the sound of you and me talking. Some of the things you say are inexplicable to the point where you sound like you're nutters."

This information caught Harry off guard, and for the moment, he was baffled, but he decided to let the matter drop.

"Let's have lunch," Harry said.

After they finished eating, Harry and Draco decided to split up, thinking it would better strategy. Draco told Harry that if he came across a purple lily pad, he would test out the spell from the Eastern Shore Network and see if the lily pad turned into a vehicle he could operate. Morning turned into afternoon as Harry roamed across the north end of the bog and Draco scoured the south end. Draco was gathering a respectable number of plant and flower specimens, but almost all of the lily pads he saw were green, with an occasional yellow one. Then, wading though a shallow pool, he spotted the tiniest bit of purple, hidden by the white blossoms that floated on the surface of the water. At first, Draco thought it was an insect, but looking closer, it proved to be a very small lily pad. Due to either wetland chemistry or genetic mutation, the lily pad was indeed purple. Draco took out his wand and the parchment with the spell, and proceeded to recite the incantation.

The purple lily pad instantly expanded in size until its surface was large enough for a small group of people to stand on. Then a solid block of gleaming metal rose from the surface of the lily pad's right half. Next to this rose a metal column with what appeared to be a steering device on top, and then two seats shot up from the floor. Draco hesitated, then put one foot onto the surface of the lily pad. When nothing catastrophic happened, he grabbed part of the metal block and hoisted himself on board.

Draco saw at once that the shiny metal block—actually, a great case of mechanisms with a panel of buttons, switches, dials, gauges and instruments on top—was firmly fastened to the lily pad, whose surface now had a texture more like flexible metal than anything plant-like. Draco eased himself into the seat in front of the metal column and took hold of the steering mechanism. A message flashed on the glass screen that ran across the top of the instrument panel:

Steering unit has acknowledged a human driver. No passengers detected.

Two signs lit up, which read "Airborne Function" and "Search for Veela-Related Plant Life," and Draco now noticed that a pair of "on" and "off" buttons were positioned underneath each of these lighted signs. Encouraged by this positive development, Draco pressed the "on" button to search for Veela-related plant life. The only noticeable effect was another message on the glass screen:

Deficient conditions. Performance will be poor.

Not to be discouraged, Draco pressed the "on" button for the airborne function since the giant lily pad was still on the water surface of the shallow pool. A new message appeared onscreen:

Attempting airborne travel. Deficient conditions. Performance will be poor.

The lily-pad vehicle lifted off the surface of the water and many feet into the air in a single swift movement. The vehicle moved through the air in fitful motions. The lily pad lurched forward, then stopped in mid-air while a horrible sputtering noise issued from the back of the vehicle. With Draco hanging onto the steering column for dear life, the lily pad dove from high above the ground straight into the muddiest, most algae-covered area of the bog. The vehicle skimmed the bog surface, covering Draco with successive coats of mud and algae. Draco's unfortunate lily-pad vehicle repeated this cycle of inept operation many times as it made its blundering way toward the north end of the bog, where, to Draco's great relief, he spotted Harry.

"Miserable piece of junk," Draco muttered as he hit the "off" button for airborne operation. Rather than landing on a watery surface, the lily pad at least had the decency to land at the edge of the meadow, close to where an astonished Harry was staring at Draco's landing operation.

Draco presented a spectacle worthy of being stared at. He was covered from head to foot with mud, algae and pond slime. For good measure, long strands of aquatic weeds had twisted themselves around his legs, arms and neck. Draco jumped out of the vehicle onto the ground, using impressively colorful language as he ripped off the lengths of bog weeds. Harry opened his mouth—

Draco raised his index finger. "Don't. Say. Anything."

It took every bit of self-control at Harry's command to stifle an outburst of giggles. He reached for his wand and pointed it at Draco.

_"Scourgify!"_

Cleansed of every trace of vegetation and aquatic waste, Draco calmed down.

"Thank you, Potter."

"The vehicle doesn't operate as advertised?"

"Shoddy, third-rate piece of garbage." Draco walked over to the side of the giant lily pad and kicked it soundly.

Harry couldn't hide a smile. "My Uncle Vernon always kicks the tire of his car like that when the car malfunctions. Aunt Petunia tells him it won't do any good, but he always kicks the tire anyway."

Draco whipped his head around to glare at Harry.

"Sorry," Harry said quickly, "I guess that's besides the point. What do you think went wrong?"

"For one thing, some of the messages that appeared on the instrument panel were not very encouraging. There was a message about detecting a human driver and no passengers. All well and good. But then when I activated the airborne function or the function to search for Veela-related plant life, the message on the panel was 'deficient conditions, performance will be poor.'"

"Do you think the Eastern Shore spirits were wrong about a Veela or part-Veela not being able to drive the thing?"

Draco waved his hand toward the lily pad. "Have a go at it."

"I'm throwing our backpacks onto the floor of this thing," Harry said, "so we have something to put the plant specimens in. I have a gut feeling this is going to work."

After throwing the backpacks onboard, Harry jumped onto the surface of the vehicle, took the seat in front of the metal column and grabbed hold of the steering mechanism.

"So," Draco said, "do you see the signs light up for 'airborne function' and 'search for Veela-related plant life?' That was the first thing that happened to me."

"No, I don't even get that far," Harry said. "The message at the very top says 'Veela cannot operate this vehicle. All functions disabled.'" Harry jumped back on the ground.

"All functions disabled? Let me have a look." Draco jumped back onto the vehicle, sat in the driver's seat and seized the steering mechanism. "Same thing happens as before. It acknowledges a human driver, but it detects no passengers, and I have these signs lighting up for airborne function and Veela-related plant life. I sure as hell am not going to push those buttons and go through _that_ again."

"Maybe it'll work better if I'm a passenger," Harry offered.

Draco scowled. "I don't see how that would help, but come on, jump in. Anything's possible."

As soon as Harry was on the lily pad, a new message appeared on the glass screen. Draco, still in the driver's seat, motioned Harry to come over and they read the information together:

Steering unit has acknowledged a human driver. First condition satisfied.  
Veela passenger detected on board. Second condition satisfied.  
All conditions have been satisfied, and performance will be optimal.

Harry got into the passenger seat next to Draco. Within seconds, shining metal extensions with multi-colored lights protruded from the circular periphery of the lily pad and began to rotate with ever-increasing speed until the flat, circular ring on the periphery was a whirring, flashing display of spinning metal and multi-colored lights. Two other lighted signs emerged from the surface of the vehicle, one in front and one in back, and these signs flashed their message on and off continuously:

**VEELA ON BOARD**

Harry had a sly smile on his face. "Go ahead, Malfoy. Try the airborne function."

Draco hit the "on" button. A sheet of transparent, glass-like material rose up from the outside circumference of the floor and created a dome that enclosed everything above the floor, forming a room with a crystal dome instead of walls. New signs and controls lit up on the instrument panel. One was for opening and closing the dome. Another sign read: "autopilot (requires human driver on board)."

The vehicle flew into the sky with the ease of the most advanced professional Quidditch broom. The flying machine responded to Draco's every touch with preternatural performance. Draco was becoming drunk with power. He could make the vehicle fly above the clouds, skim the surface of land or water, fly in spinning circles, anything.

"Hey, Potter, this thing is under my complete control. It's like the machine can almost read my mind. I love this. What a feeling of raw power." Draco punched his fist into the air. "I feel like the lord and master of the sky!"

Harry grabbed a handful of fabric from the top of Draco's shirt. With one violent motion, he yanked Draco close until the two of them were nose to nose. Harry had Draco's complete attention.

"Listen," Harry said, smiling, "it's working perfectly because I'm on board." Harry's breath was ghosting against Draco's lips. "Maybe this machine won't let me drive, but I think I have to be on board or you're out of luck. No Veela, no joyride."

A smile spread across Draco's lips. "I think you're right, Potter. Flying this thing as a one-man operation just doesn't do the trick. You're indispensible."

Harry released Draco's shirt. "Go ahead and try the function for Veela-related plant life. Let's see what happens."

Draco pressed the "on" button. As the vehicle hovered in mid-air, a huge fluorescent red and yellow mushroom shot up from the ground until it was at the same height as Harry and Draco's vehicle. The crystal dome of the vehicle opened as miniature versions of the fluorescent mushroom dropped into the vehicle from the underside of the mushroom cap. The dome closed and the lily pad flew off to other areas of the wetland.

"Malfoy, fly low over the bog and open the dome all the way. I want to see if I can get some flower specimens by reaching over the edge of the vehicle."

Draco had the lily pad flying at slow speed with the dome removed, just above the bog. Harry knelt down on the floor and started to lean over the edge.

"No, wait," Draco said, "you might fall over the edge."

"All right, what do you suggest?"

"Teamwork, Potter. This requires teamwork."

Draco switched the controls to autopilot and knelt down on the floor behind Harry, putting one knee on either side of him. He circled one arm tight around Harry's waist, used the other hand to hold onto the bottom of the steering column, then pulled Harry in close.

"There. You can stretch your arm out as far as you like. No chance of you falling overboard now, is there?"

"At this point, Malfoy, you've made it physically impossible for me to fall overboard."

"You see, Potter? You can always rely on my good sense."

Seemingly drawn to Harry, flowers with fantastically mutated colors and shapes appeared on the surface of the bog as he reached his hand out to skim the surface of the water, and Harry gathered one specimen after another and tossed them toward the two backpacks. By the time the sun was setting, Harry and Draco had collected a variety of plant and flower specimens of such bizarre form and color as to be found nowhere else on earth. They returned the vehicle to the landing spot where they had left their brooms. When they stepped out of the vehicle, it began shrinking, and within a minute it had returned to its original form: a tiny purple lily pad.

"Do you think this machine is good for only one use?" Draco asked.

Harry shrugged. "It doesn't matter. I think we've collected enough. If we follow the instructions the Eastern Shore spirits gave us, all we're missing are some specimens of plants and flowers that you find more easily at night."

After nightfall, the two boys finished up their collection efforts by taking turns using their wands to cast a Lumos charm for light. By midnight, they were both exhausted and set up their sleeping bags on the same hillside where they had rested that morning. Soon after casting a warming charm, Draco was sleeping like the dead. But Harry, as tired as he was, slept only lightly. He should have become used to it after the last several years, the absurd dream Voldemort was always dragging him into, and Harry's dream began with a familiar scene.

Voldemort stands in the middle of the ballroom, acting like the same self-important jackass he's always been, reading his curse at Harry. Yeah, yeah. Harry knows it by heart. "You're a self-righteous little prig. You're too uptight to see anything but social convention and your own preconceptions." Blah, blah, blah.

Harry is in the train station now, looking at his eleven-year-old self crying next to the suitcase, although his face is still hidden under the hood. But the real events didn't happen that way. Hermione reminded him that he'd forgotten his suitcase, and he ran back to the station platform to get it, but he wasn't crying at all.

Now the dream takes a different turn. Harry's in the train carriage with Hermione, and the dream proceeds as an accurate vision of past events—the same conversation Harry remembers having with Hermione on the train at the end of first year.

"It was that last Herbology test," Harry says to Hermione. "That's the one that was so hard. I couldn't remember half of those plants. I think I got the answer for Gillyweed wrong."

"Get the textbook out, Harry," Hermione says. Harry hauls the Herbology textbook out of his suitcase and is skimming through the chapter on aquatic plants.

"Oh, and get out the Herbology workbook. Did you do any of the exercises?"

"A few," Harry says, searching through his suitcase. The workbook isn't there. Harry is looking through everything now, emptying the suitcase completely.

"I lost it, 'Mione. I must have left my Herbology workbook at Hogwarts." Harry scowls. "That's crazy. I can't believe I left it back there."

The dream was becoming so unsettling that Harry was shouting in his sleep: "My workbook… I lost it… I need my workbook!"

Draco was snoozing peacefully in his sleeping bag when Harry's frantic voice drew him out of sleep.

"'Mione, I know I packed it… I couldn't have lost it… I want it back!"

Draco shook Harry to wake him, but he tried to bring him out of sleep gently… because Harry was crying, the tears flowing freely onto the sleeping bag.

"Potter, you're having a bad dream," Draco said, trying to sound reassuring.

"Draco." Harry was talking—and still crying—but not yet awake. "I need my workbook."

"Potter, wake up."

Harry opened his eyes. "Malfoy." Harry looked around, scanning the surroundings. "I was dreaming, wasn't I?"

"Definitely. And you were crying when you woke up."

Harry let out a long sigh. "It's that same dream Voldemort keeps sending me."

"The one you told me about in June, at the end of term?"

"Yeah. Voldemort is still in the ballroom, blathering about the curse he's casting on me. But this time, I dreamt about something that really happened. When I got back onto the Hogwarts Express, I was trying to find my Herbology workbook. I asked Hermione about a test in Herbology, and she told me to get out my workbook. But I couldn't find it because I lost it. It's funny, but I never did remember where I left it. Not that it was any big deal. I mean, I only finished a couple of the exercises. It wouldn't have done me much good anyway."

Draco shifted and looked away, refusing to meet Harry's eyes as he spoke. "I'm sure it's not important. You should just forget about it and try to get some sleep."

"It's strange that I was crying while I was dreaming about it, though. I wasn't that upset when I lost the workbook, you know, at the end of first year. It was just a stupid workbook. Malfoy?"

Draco forced himself to make eye contact, grudgingly turning his head to face Harry.

"Do you think I'll ever figure out the dream? I mean, why Voldemort is sending it."

"Probably not." Draco's hands were on either side of Harry's face, and Draco wondered why his body had such a mind of its own. He was becoming increasingly concerned about the disconnect between his brain and his body in situations like this.

Draco's voice was scratchy. "Dreams usually don't work that way. You'll just stop having that dream. Now get some sleep."

* º * º *

After breakfast, Draco noticed how sleepy Harry still looked, and he knew it was because Harry had spent most of the night tortured by dreams. Draco was setting himself to the task of organizing the plant and flower specimens they had collected, but when he saw Harry's eyelids drooping, he gathered the collection of specimens into his backpack.

Draco tugged at Harry's sleeve, pointing to the solitary tree on the hillside. "Let's move underneath the tree where it's shady. I can organize the plants and flowers over there, and if you want, you can take a nap. Bring your sleeping bag."

Harry settled himself under the tree and rolled his sleeping bag into a makeshift pillow. With the sheltering branches stretching over him, Harry fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. Draco finished organizing and labeling the plant and flower specimens soon enough. He looked over at the boy sleeping under the tree, studied the perfection of face and figure, and he had no problem understanding why Harry had recently acquired such a legion of admirers.

Draco fished a new item out of his backpack: the book of classic English verse that Greg Goyle had brought with him this year. Draco had asked if he could borrow it, in case he found himself with empty time during this expedition, and Draco skimmed the pages looking for the poem he'd read earlier. When he found the page he wanted, he settled down next to the fast-asleep boy. Draco couldn't help running his fingers through Harry's silky black hair. No harm in that, was there? He kept the fingers of one hand tangled in the loose waves of dark hair while he used the other hand to hold up the book of verse.

With Harry sleeping contentedly beside him, Draco looked out from the hillside, and a feeling of mastery came over him, mastery of everything he surveyed, mastery of the world. He smiled, wondering whether Harry would find his attitude annoying. Draco surveyed the landscape of meadow and bogland below as one particular verse ran through his mind:

· · · · · · Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land!

When Harry woke, the sun was at its zenith in the sky. He looked around, and next to Draco were only two very full backpacks and their brooms.

"You sorted through everything while I was asleep. It's all packed up?"

Draco nodded. "Time to get back to the castle."

"Too bad we can't stay longer. You're probably used to the swampland by now, aren't you?" Harry couldn't help grinning. "All that gurgling mud and slime and algae."

"I've always been used to it. I told you there are lowland bogs near Malfoy Manor. Pansy and I used to play near them when we children."

"You've known her since you were children?"

"Sure. Greg and Vince too. Even the Ravenclaw girl you asked me about before."

"The pretty redhead?" Harry looked at the ground. "Your girlfriend?"

"Potter." Draco's exasperated tone forced Harry's head to snap up. "I told you back in Potions class that our families know each other, but she's not my girlfriend." Draco's eyes rolled upwards. "I can see that only a full confession will satisfy your curiosity. All right, we had one brief fling, and I think it was more a result of our families shamelessly pushing us in each other's direction. They had some idiotic notion about family alliances that would be beneficial in the future. But things never went beyond one furtive roll in the hay."

"The two of you didn't get along that great?"

"She was obsessed with social standing and respectability. I wanted passion. Too bad she didn't have a dash of Veela ancestry in her family background. I seem to remember your very pointed remark yesterday after my messy attempt to operate that lily-pad vehicle by myself. 'No Veela, no joyride.'"

Harry chanced a sidelong glance at Draco. "I said that?"

"That's exactly what you said, Potter."

"So did you find passion with other girls?"

Draco drew a deep, labored breath. "That one ill-fated affair is the full extent of my romantic experience. But then you haven't succeeded brilliantly yourself. I recall your liaison with that big oaf, Urquhart. So what if he's going to captain the Slytherin Quidditch team this year? I doubt he's cracked open many books since he started at Hogwarts. He probably gets by with remedial tutoring. What on God's earth drew you to an illiterate lout like Urquhart?"

"Er… an ill-advised sense of adventure? Misplaced hero worship?" Harry had run out of plausible excuses. "Sheer stupidity?"

They were both laughing now. Any tension that had lingered between the two of them dissolved in the warm sunlight, and they were soon flying back to Hogwarts Castle. They decided to land some distance away from the castle—they were keen to avoid attracting attention—and instead landed in a nearby field and walked the rest of the way. The spires of the castle loomed ahead of them as they waded through the bluebells that were still in bloom. Clusters of long, thin stems and wave after wave of violet-blue parted for them as they approached the castle, absorbed in the pleasure of each other's company and heedless of whether they might meet anyone on the way.

"So you have woods and fields and bogs close to Malfoy Manor," Harry said. "When I was growing up, I tried to imagine what countryside like that would be like, but I never saw anything except suburban houses. Anything else near Malfoy Manor, like maybe a ruined fortress?"

"No fortresses"—Draco slid an arm around Harry's shoulder as they walked—"but there's a cave hidden away in a patch of woods. I'm the only one who knows about it. I never told anyone about it, not Pansy, not Greg, not even my parents. I wanted to keep it as my secret place. I'll take you there, Potter. You'll love it. I know you will."

Harry could only stumble along, mesmerized by the physical contact with Draco. Neither one of them was even aware that they had reached the path leading up to the castle, and they certainly weren't aware of Dean Thomas and Michael Corner walking toward them until Harry and Draco almost collided with them.

Draco performed some quick calculations. These two would start making moves on Harry any second now. Forget about using cinnamon. Harry and Draco had forgotten to bring any cinnamon along with them. Then Draco noticed that Dean and Michael didn't have their brooms with them. Draco was preparing to make an emergency escape with Harry by taking off on their brooms… and then he noticed that Dean and Michael were chatting away calmly with Harry, not even trying to get close to him. What in blazes was going on?

"Er… Thomas, Corner"—Draco chose his words with care—"Potter and I are on our way to deliver a report to Professor Snape—a report for a Potions project. I'd love to stay here and chat, and I'm sure Potter would as well, but we're pressed for time and…"

"Don't let us keep you," Dean said. "Carry on."

"You don't object," Draco ventured, "if Potter and I have to get back to the castle just now?"

"Of course not," Michael replied. "Why should we object?"

"Hey, Dean"—Harry was already pulling Draco by the arm—"I'll see you in Gryffindor soon. But I have to finish my Potions project with Malfoy first."

"Good luck then," Dean said, heading away from the castle with Michael. "See you."

"Potter, what in the hell is going on? I think we can use cinnamon on those two once more before it loses its effectiveness. But we didn't even have a chance to get them to eat something with cinnamon. We didn't have any counteragent at all. And they didn't even try to make a move on you. Neither one of them grabbed you or even tried to kiss you."

"I don't know what's going on. Please believe me, Malfoy. If I knew, I would tell you."

"All right, we'll figure it out later. Let's get back."

Once they got back to Hogwarts Castle, Harry and Draco agreed to leave the plant and flower specimens in Harry's room on the sixth floor and then continue on their Potions project in the morning.

Draco lingered at Harry's door before leaving. "We've got everything set up to develop an ace potion. I'll bet it'll impress the hell out of Professor Snape. And just to make him happy, you'll have no trouble finding that toy you had when you were four years old, will you?"

"I've kept it hidden in the same place for years. It's in a broom cupboard under the stairs. I hid it underneath the floorboard that's directly under the light fixture. That's the only floorboard you can remove, and I'm the only one who knows."

"Potter, I had no idea you had such an affinity for secret hiding places. It sounds almost Slytherin." Draco started down the corridor, but then turned around. "If you want to get an early start, meet me at the same place in the library before breakfast, the tables in the northwest corner."

After Draco had headed down to the Slytherin common room in the dungeons, Harry heard a series of soft knocks on his door. Harry opened his door to reveal a vision of mysticism in action: Sybill Trelawney dressed in her finest attire, simply dripping with bangles and sequins.

Harry managed to get two words out. "Professor Trelawney." After he recovered from his shock, he continued. "I thought you were still in the hospital wing."

"I'm feeling much better now. Thank you for your concern, Mr. Potter. Please forgive the unproductive results of my spell involving the swamp spirits. I have perfected what I believe to be a sure-fire spell. I'm confident it will produce successful results."

Harry had the strongest feeling that Professor Trelawney was an inept charlatan, but how could he refuse her? She was a respected member of the Hogwarts faculty. He had no choice but to invite her into his room and let her have at it.

"Professor, please come in."

Sybill Trelawney proceeded to explain the spell she had prepared: Abeyance of Conscious Attraction.

"You see, Mr. Potter, Abeyance of Conscious Attraction will suspend your powers of erotic attraction for a period of seven days. That is to say, it will make those powers dormant for seven days. If the spell is successful, I will collaborate with other members of the faculty to develop a more permanent spell. Now, Mr. Potter, just relax as I cast the spell."

Sybill Trelawney had her wand trained on a nervous Harry Potter while she recited the incantation. It was fortunate for Harry that he was seated in a comfortable stuffed chair because when Professor Trelawney finished her incantation, Harry promptly fell asleep.

At first, Trelawney thought she had encountered only a minor glitch.

"Mr. Potter, are you awake? Mr. Potter?"

After some time, Trelawney realized the gravity of the situation and sought assistance.

Trelawney returned to Harry's room later that evening carrying the full documentation for her spell. Following immediately behind her was Severus Snape, his eyebrows a single scowling black line, and his right hand he clenched some research documentation so tightly that his knuckles were white as paper. Snape examined Harry briefly.

"Mr. Potter has fallen into a deep sleep. Sybill, let me see the background research and documentation for this spell."

"My command of Latin is not all that it should be, Severus," Trelawney said, handing the bound parchment to Snape.

Snape flipped through the pages with ever-increasing irritation. "You thought this was a spell to suspend powers of sexual attraction for seven days?"

"I did my best with the translation."

"Abeyance of Conscious Attraction? This is a spell for abeyance of consciousness. It puts the victim into a deep sleep for seven days." Snape put his hands to his temples, as if wishing for abeyance of a splitting headache. "Sybill, I realize your efforts are well-intentioned, but there is no denying that disaster most often follows in your wake."


	8. Visit to a Broom Cupboard

**Title: **Congenital Magnetism  
**Author: **Ascyltus  
**Completed: **Yes  
**Summary: **At the end of his fifth year, Harry displays his effortless knack for landing himself in problematic situations. Luckily, Harry begins to develop some unusual abilities that he has inherited by virtue of being one-quarter Veela. Only Draco Malfoy seems to be immune to Harry's newly found powers.  
**Disclaimer: **This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Chapter 8: Visit to a Broom Cupboard**

Dumbledore sat at his desk leafing through the documentation for the spell Sybill Trelawney had cast on Harry, a spell she had used in an attempt to control his powers of Veela attraction, which had the male students making passes at Harry every chance they could. Snape stood behind him, occasionally leaning over to make an annotation in the margins. When the two had gone through all the pages, Dumbledore closed the bound volume, and Snape began pacing back and forth across the floor.

"Lord Voldemort is a highly skilled Legilimens," Snape said. "As soon as he realizes Potter is under a spell that is keeping him asleep, he could use the opportunity to inflict a fair amount of psychic torture on Potter. He has certainly demonstrated his special link to Potter's mind before."

Dumbledore's eyes were squeezed shut. "That was exactly the possibility I was contemplating." The Headmaster opened his eyes and looked steadily at Snape, who had now stopped pacing. "It will depend on how often Lord Voldemort attempts to invade Harry's mind. I've suspected that the Legilimency attempts are most often very brief, perhaps lasting only a fraction of a second. Harry may often not even be aware of anything unusual when the mental connection is so brief."

Snape followed the thread of Dumbledore's logic. "But if Voldemort were able to peer into Harry's mind for even a fraction of a second, he would know when Harry was awake or asleep; and if he realized Harry was asleep for an extended period…"

"Yes," Dumbledore continued, "he would be in a position to cause Harry all manner of psychic anguish." He rose from his chair. "This is only Friday afternoon, and Sybill cast the spell on Harry late last night. Harry will most likely remain asleep in the hospital wing during the next six days. Poppy needs to be alerted so that she can keep a close eye on Harry… in case she needs to equip his bed with physical restraints."

"Do you think there's any possibility of Potter causing himself physical injury while he's asleep?"

"Harry may suffer a great deal during the coming days," Dumbledore said, "and he may emerge from his seven-day sleep exhausted. He will certainly need some time to recuperate his energies. But no, Severus, I don't think any psychic assault Voldemort could inflict would lead Harry to injure himself during his time asleep. I think he has at least sufficient powers of Occlumency to shield his mind to that extent." Dumbledore's brow furrowed deeply and he was quiet for a moment. "However, Poppy should be prepared for any eventuality."

The Headmaster was moving toward the door of his office. "We need to speak with Poppy. And, Severus, could you fetch Draco and bring him along with you to the hospital wing? He should be finishing his afternoon classes now."

Snape's eyebrows arched up. "Draco?"

Dumbledore smile was playful. "Harry and Draco have formed such a successful collaboration of late. His presence could only help, don't you think?"

"Their strategies are highly unconventional at times"—Snape coughed, almost choking a bit—"but yes, I admit that a surprising camaraderie has developed between the two. At least it's surprising to me, given their past history."

* º * º *

Dumbledore, Snape and Draco were seated opposite Poppy Pomfrey in a small antechamber in the hospital wing.

"Mr. Potter has been asleep since he was brought here late last night," Pomfrey began. "His friends, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, were here visiting him earlier, although only Miss Granger was able to stay in Harry's room for any length of time. Mr. Weasley began behaving rather oddly. I mean, he was displaying an unusual amount of physical affection for Mr. Potter even though Mr. Potter was asleep"—Draco's snickers were met with disapproving looks from Dumbledore and Snape—"and Miss Granger suggested to Mr. Weasley that he wait outside, which he did."

"At the moment…" Madam Pomfrey leaned forward and spoke in a hushed, conspiratorial tone, "… at the moment, Professor Trelawney is in Harry's room. She's performing a spell—actually, I think it's a full-blown ritual—which she tells me is guaranteed to wake Mr. Potter from his sleep. The Rooster Spell, she calls it. The name of the spell sounds hopeful. I suppose roosters are useful animals in regards to waking people up in the morning." Furrows appeared on Pomfrey's forehead and she shifted in her seat. "But this whole ritual seems so… irregular. For one thing, there's that musical instrument she took in there… an accordion, I believe. Don't they use that in German-speaking countries? Sybill swears on everything sacred that the Rooster Spell was developed by a renowned Bavarian witch. And what on earth is she doing bringing alcoholic spirits in there with her? I think she called it schnapps."

Dumbledore, Snape and Draco crept around the room divider that separated Harry's bed from the rest of the ward and watched as Sybill Trelawney perfected the physical movements of the ritual. She lifted both hands up with her hands open wide, fingers straight up and thumbs straight down. Then she clamped her fingers and thumbs together and opened them again; she did this four times, rhythmically. Next, she lifted both arms up, bent at the elbows, so they were horizontal. Then she snapped her bent arms down against the sides of her chest, and then up again. This, she also did four times in rhythm. After that, she wriggled her arse while lowering her body by bending her knees, using the same rhythm. Finally, she clapped her hands four times. She repeated this entire spell procedure twice.

This, apparently, was a practice round. She was ready for the actual spell. With great ceremony, she raised her wand, aimed it at the sacred Bavarian accordion, then uttered the incantation:

_"And a one, and a two, and a—"_

—at which point, the accordion began to play inanely bouncy polka music in 4/4 time. The spell ritual had now attained its complete form: the beak-like hand movements, the arms flapping against the chest, the wriggling arse on knees bending lower and lower, and finally, the hand claps. Trelawney repeated all of this four times through, and then…

The accordion melody switched to a glorious polka refrain during which Trelawney filled her glass with a hearty serving of schnapps and downed it in one swallow. She then danced around the circumference of Harry's bed, waving her arms. Her body movements during this dance refrain were vague and unstructured—perhaps just as well, since her increasingly inebriated state produced an erratic course, which resulted in Trelawney sometimes colliding with the side of the bed.

None of this commotion did anything to rouse Harry from his slumber, and after four verses, a refrain, another four verses and a final refrain, the music came to a merciful stop. Trelawney approached Harry's bed in hopes of success.

"Mr. Potter… Mr. Potter, are you awake?"

Trelawney heaved a disheartened sigh, but decided to persevere and began the entire sorry performance anew.

Snape turned to Dumbledore and made his concerns known in a loud whisper: "What _IS_ this?"

The Headmaster looked at Snape helplessly with the palms of his hands face up. By this point, Trelawney had drunk a considerable amount of schnapps and was crashing into the bed with increasing frequency, although Harry remained resolutely asleep.

With the next pause in the music, Snape stepped forward into the area around Harry's bed and intervened.

"Sybill"—Trelawney's head jerked around in surprise—"I'm sure you've exhausted any possibility of success from this spell… er, ritual." Trelawney's shoulders slumped.

"Sybill," said Dumbledore as he moved toward Harry's bedside, followed by Draco, "your efforts are valiant, but Severus has been studying your documentation for the spell that has sent Harry into a seven-day slumber, and he may be better able to provide us with insight. Perhaps it's best if you left things up to Severus and I for now."

Trelawney admitted defeat. "Very well, Albus." Her eyes were wide and vulnerable behind her thick spectacles. "I just felt somehow responsible for rectifying the unintended effects of my spell." She paused, looking from Dumbledore back to Snape. "Thank you both for offering your expertise. I feel much better knowing you have matters in hand." Trelawney glided out the door, and then there was nothing but the faint, tinkling sound of bangles retreating down the corridor.

Pomfrey had now joined Dumbledore, Snape and Draco at Harry's bedside. Her hand went up to her mouth as her expression turned more serious. "I wanted to wait until Sybill left before I told you about what Mr. Potter was going through earlier, before Sybill arrived. It started soon after Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger left. Mr. Potter began experiencing difficulty even though he was asleep."

Dumbledore and Snape looked at each other, hoping not to confirm what the other was thinking. Dumbledore spoke for them both. "What sort of difficulty was Harry going through?"

"Nightmares, I imagine," Pomfrey replied. "He was trying to struggle and thrash about, although he made the kind of movements he would make if his arms and legs were tied down to the bed. Mr. Potter was even shouting at one point. Something about someone torturing him. A little later, he calmed down and he seemed as though he could move his arms and legs freely again. He's been sleeping peacefully since then."

Draco was scowling, but said nothing.

"Poppy," Dumbledore said, "if Harry has any further nightmares, and his movements threaten him with injury, can you equip his bed with restraints? I don't think it will be necessary, but just in case. Severus and I believe Harry will be under this spell for the next six days, and he may very well go through the same trouble you observed earlier."

"Yes, of course." Pomfrey absently pulled Harry's blanket up to cover his neck.

"And, Poppy… if Severus, Draco and I could have a few more minutes to visit with Harry."

"Certainly, Albus," Pomfrey said, leaving the room. "I'll be at the front desk should you need anything at all."

"Albus," Snape said as soon as Pomfrey had left, "the timing of all this is most unfortunate. You know that these last few days I've been developing a potion to counteract Veela attraction, but one that is specifically designed for Mr. Potter's unique chemistry. I already have a blood sample from Mr. Potter, but in addition, I require an object he has had since childhood. The potion relies on the lunar cycle, and it must be completed early Thursday evening, during the last few hours before the new moon. Mr. Potter had promised to provide me with a childhood toy—a toy train engine, I believe—and he was to travel to his uncle's house this weekend to retrieve it." Snape looked down at Harry. "However, since Sybill's botched spell will keep him asleep until late Thursday night, it will be impossible to complete my potion. I will have to wait for another month…" Snape lowered his head until his face was resting in his hands, "… which guarantees another month of yet more Veela-related chaos." Snape lifted his head up weakly. "Why does everything related to Mr. Potter conspire to produce the most inconvenient result possible? Can anyone tell me?"

"Potter's toy train engine—I know where it's hidden."

Two heads snapped around in unison to stare at Draco. With Harry asleep, Snape dispensed with formality and used Draco's given name.

"You know where it's hidden, Draco? How would _you_ know?"

"Potter told me. He hid it under a loose floorboard that's directly underneath the light fixture in the broom cupboard."

"I told you, Severus," Dumbledore said, beaming. "Harry and Draco are collaborating even more effectively than we imagined." Snape could only spread his hands and accept the undeniable fact of Harry and Draco's unexpected partnership.

"Draco," Dumbledore continued, "if I provided you with a Portkey and a letter of introduction, would you consider traveling to the home of Harry's uncle this weekend to retrieve this childhood toy of Harry's for us? I think Harry's uncle and aunt would be much less suspicious of one of Harry's fellow students than a faculty member."

Draco shrugged. "Why not? All I have to do is say that I'm fetching it for Potter, and I'm sure his uncle and aunt will do anything they can to help. But how will I explain why Potter isn't going there himself?"

Snape was now in much better cheer and offered a plausible excuse. "You will tell them Mr. Potter is suffering from a bad cold, and the school nurse has confined him to bed."

The conversation was cut short by anguished moans, and all three turned toward the bed to see Harry's body suddenly rigid, his face contorted with pain.

"No more," Harry said in agony, and a few tears slid onto the pillow.

Draco pulled up a chair close to the side of the bed and sat down. "It's Voldemort, isn't it? He's taking advantage of his link to Potter's mind."

"After reading the documentation for Trelawney's spell," Dumbledore said, "we came to that conclusion. This spell, Abeyance of Consciousness, allows anyone with a link to the victim's mind to control the content of his dreams. And only Voldemort has a link to Harry's mind."

Draco shifted closer to Harry. "You asked Madam Pomfrey about having to physically restrain him. Do you think Potter's in physical danger?"

"No," Snape answered. "We think Mr. Potter has sufficient powers of Occlumency to shield his mind from self-destructive notions, even if Voldemort suggests it. However, the next six days will likely be unpleasant. The nightmares will come and go randomly, and Mr. Potter will feel drained of energy when he wakes up on Thursday night."

Harry's fists were tightly clenched and he was quietly whimpering. Draco was sitting very close to Harry, and he took one of Harry's balled-up fists in both of his hands, gently covering it. Harry's fist instantly relaxed. Draco moved the palm of his hand until it was flat against Harry's palm, laced his fingers with Harry's and began to use his other hand to softly stroke the back of Harry's hand. Draco's gesture conveyed such tenderness that Dumbledore and Snape were held transfixed, staring at Draco. Harry's agonized whimpering had stopped, and his face relaxed as Draco spoke.

"I'll be ready to leave tomorrow. Where is it that I have to go?"

"The name of the town is Little Whinging," Dumbledore said. "It's in Surrey."

"And you're sure Potter will be all right?" Draco asked, still stroking Harry's hand.

Snape was speechless and could do nothing more than watch the image of endearment unfolding in front of him. Dumbledore answered instead.

"Madam Pomfrey will keep close watch. I have every confidence in her ability to keep Harry from harm."

Draco shifted his attention away from Harry, and he finally became aware of the curiosity Dumbledore and Snape were directing at him. "Potter and I—we've sort of looked after each other during this project—you know, the disasters in the Potions classroom, the giant water lilies chasing Potter through the school, collecting plant specimens out in the countryside."

Draco released Harry's hand and gently laid it back down on the bed. "Headmaster, you said you have a Portkey and a letter of introduction for me?"

"Come with me to my office, Draco," Dumbledore replied.

* º * º *

Darkness had already descended on Privet Drive when Draco Malfoy appeared on the corner just up the street from the Dursley house. He was still clutching the Cuban cigar that Dumbledore had provided him with, the Portkey that had conveyed Draco from Hogwarts Castle in Scotland to the most self-consciously bourgeois locale he had ever seen. He noticed the orderly series of street lamps, every one of them functioning perfectly, whose soft glow revealed small but perfectly-manicured lawns; there couldn't have been so much as a blade of grass out of place. Draco put the cigar into his pants pocket and made his way up the street toward number four. As he passed one of the houses, he noticed a small sign that was planted in the grass. The sign read: "Please do not walk on the grass." It was then that Draco noticed a very short picket fence, about as high as his knees, enclosing the entire lawn. Behind that lay a wide strip of pebbles, and behind the pebbles lay an equally wide strip of mulch. Behind the mulch stood a line of small bushes about two feet in height. And finally, behind all of these various barriers was the grass that the sign referred to. Draco reckoned that if someone were hell-bent on defying the instructions on the sign, he would have to perform a running long jump to clear all the hurdles necessary to land on the grass.

Draco forged ahead, passing several more painfully tidy houses along the way. A garden ornament that stood at the edge of one lawn now caught his eye. It was a life-size statue of a young woman draped in classical Greco-Roman robes. The female figure was modestly clutching the folds of her robe to her collarbone, and her position on the part of the lawn adjacent to the sidewalk gave the observer the impression she was guarding the house from outside forces. As Draco examined the statue, he noticed a plaque at the bottom, whose dark lettering was clearly legible in the glow of the nearby street lamp:

~ Purity ~

I abhor all things shady or risqué. I strive to be drab.  
I am as chaste as the chalk hills of suburban Surrey, which surround me.  
Chalk, I tell you!  
I cover and conceal all dodgy liaisons that are better left undiscovered.

Draco paused and surveyed the surrounding houses in awe.

"Dear God," he said to himself. "This is Little Whinging?"

He continued up the street, checked the street number and saw that he had achieved his destination. The house in front of him presented itself as a temple of propriety, from which every sort of vice or doubtful pleasure was surely banished. The house beckoned, and Draco walked up the pathway, realizing that he was approaching the holy grail of staid respectability: number four, Privet Drive. As he neared the door, he glanced at the front window and noticed a hand pulling the edge of the curtain aside a scant couple of inches, which allowed just enough room for a pair of eyes to peer at him from the edge of the window.

Draco was in front of the door, and he suddenly felt self-conscious about his appearance. But what did he have to worry about? He'd taken care to choose expensive, well-tailored clothes that showed conservative good taste. From Dumbledore's description of the Dursleys, he was prepared for a stuffy atmosphere, but the evening was already exceeding his expectations in that regard. He smoothed his hair in the back and rang the doorbell. The door opened to reveal Aunt Petunia, sleek and elegantly dressed. She clearly displayed her Veela inheritance, in spite of herself. In doing so, she provided something of a contrast to the rigid conformity of the house and the neighborhood.

"Good evening," Petunia said. Her voice had a pleasantness that wasn't forced; it was clear that she was favorably impressed with Draco.

"Good evening, madam," Draco replied, using a polished tone. "I'm inquiring after Mrs. Vernon Dursley."

Petunia's smile was genuine. "I am Mrs. Dursley, but you may call me Petunia. What is the nature of your inquiry?"

Assessing Aunt Petunia's behavior, Draco anticipated effortless success. She already seemed to be well disposed toward him, and as soon as he mentioned his association with Harry, she would no doubt be more than eager to provide her treasured nephew with any assistance he required.

"My name is Draco Malfoy, and I am here at the request of my school's Headmaster. I'm currently working on a school project with your nephew, Harry Potter, and he needs one of his possessions for the project. I believe it's a childhood toy." Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but Draco thought he detected a disgruntled expression cross Petunia's face.

"Then you must go to… _that_ school."

"Hogwarts, yes. Your nephew would have come himself, but he's laid up in bed with a bad cold." Draco worried that Petunia might become distraught over Harry's health, and he would need to calm her fears by giving her a full report of Harry's "cold" and his expected recovery.

Aunt Petunia merely rolled her eyes. "He's always been such a hypochondriac, fussing over absolutely nothing. He's probably too lazy to get out of bed and sent you instead." Petunia gave Draco a shrewd look. "Did you say Harry was a friend of yours? I mean, did you choose to collaborate with Harry on this project rather than picking another student?"

Draco disguised his growing sense of shock. "No… no. I didn't choose to work with Potter. We were assigned to work with each other by the faculty." Draco reflected on the fact that, oddly enough, this was the truth.

Petunia's good humor returned. "My sympathies," she said. "Harry has never been anything but a trial for us. So the teachers at that weirdo school are forcing you to work on projects with my worthless nephew? Beastly. I daresay you're ill-treated at that distasteful school in any number of ways. Draco, did you say?" Aunt Petunia opened the door wide. "Where are my manners? Please, come in. Welcome to my home." Aunt Petunia led Draco through the small foyer and into the main parlor as she continued chatting.

"Really, I'm surprised you're mixed up with that crowd at all, that crowd at…" Petunia paused, grimacing, "… at Hogwarts School. I mean, the only criteria by which I can judge are what I've seen until now. There was that freakish giant who showed up to retrieve Harry five years ago—why, he must have been 10 feet in height. He was grotesque—absolutely hideous. And, of course, my twisted sister. I've always seen her for the weirdo that she was." Petunia stopped short to appraise Draco anew. "But you're altogether more presentable. You seem to be from a very cultivated family. Was it really your own wish to attend that school?"

Draco decided to mention Durmstrang Institute without revealing that it was also a school for wizardry. Let this unpleasant woman make her own conclusions.

"No, my parents decided for me. My father had wanted to send me to a school in Scandinavia because the academic atmosphere was more in keeping with his own education. However, my mother insisted on having me attend Hogwarts because it was closer to home, and she had a number of personal connections among the faculty."

"I daresay your father showed more wisdom in the matter. My husband has a close business associate who himself spent a year at university in Norway, and it was a most satisfactory experience. Pity that your father wasn't able to prevail. My husband's associate tells us that the curriculum in Scandinavian schools is quite sensible and sound."

"Your husband—I mean, Potter's Uncle Vernon—is he at home?"

"No, my husband and my son, Dudley, are spending the evening at the home of the very same business associate I just mentioned. We feel it would be a grand opportunity if Dudley were to become familiar with the workings of the business world."

Petunia stopped at the foot of the stairs that lead to the upper floor. "You did say you needed one of Harry's possessions for your school project."

"Yes."

"Follow me," she commanded, and she started up the stairs without even looking back to see that Draco was following. Draco knew that the object he needed was located in the broom cupboard on the ground floor, underneath the staircase, but he took care not to offend Aunt Petunia and politely followed her upstairs.

Petunia swept past the first door, which was closed, and stopped at the end of the hallway in front of two bedrooms, one on either side. Both bedroom doors were wide open, and she switched on the lights in both bedrooms. Aunt Petunia reminded Draco of a real estate agent showing off the better features of a house to a prospective buyer. With a grand gesture, she extended her hand toward the large, tastefully appointed bedroom on her right.

She wore a pleased expression and said, "This is the master bedroom."

She indicated the slightly smaller bedroom on the left, which was filled with a variety of expensive-looking toys and gadgetry. "And this is Dudley's bedroom," she said, still beaming.

She then retraced her steps back toward the closed door they had passed. She turned the doorknob, threw the door open, switched on the light and flicked her hand toward Harry's bedroom in a dismissive gesture. This bedroom was far and away the smallest of the three, perhaps half the size of Dudley's.

"And this is the room we allow Harry to use," she said, her smile having vanished. "Dudley used this room for his extra toys when he was a child."

Draco scowled. He tried to make sense of this last piece of information, but was unable to. "But if Dudley used this room for his extra toys, then where… ?"

"We only allowed Harry to use this room as a bedroom after he started attending that school. God knows it's more than he deserves, what with all the extra bother he's put us through since his good-for-nothing parents died. But we decided that the Headmaster of your school might have caused trouble for us if we hadn't given Harry something larger than the broom cupboard to sleep in."

"The broom cupboard," Draco said, remembering where Harry had hidden the toy train engine. "That's where Potter said I would find this object that belongs to him. I think it's a childhood toy of some kind."

"Oh, I see," Petunia said. "I had guessed that this personal belonging of his would be in his bedroom. No matter." She smiled at Draco and said, "It would have been rude not to have given you a little tour of the house. Let's go back down to the main floor. I'll show you to the broom cupboard under the stairs."

Draco thoughts were scattering in every direction under the assault of new information that was demolishing most of what he had ever believed about Harry. Draco could only ask the question that was of the most immediate concern.

"And before Potter was eleven years old, he slept in the broom cupboard?"

"By rights, he should have been sleeping in some orphanage. But no"—Petunia sighed and looked upwards—"we felt an obligation because he was our nephew, though he's been nothing but a needless headache since he was a year old. Our only consolation is that soon, we'll be rid of him for good, and our lives can blessedly return to normal."

Draco felt unsteady on his feet and didn't trust himself to walk down the stairs without gripping the banister. At the foot of the stairs, Petunia made a U-turn to walk along the side of the staircase, and Draco stumbled numbly behind her. She stopped in front of a small door. After opening the door, she reached in and flicked a light switch; a single bare light bulb now illuminated the dismal space that housed a few brooms and cardboard boxes.

Draco peered inside. "It might take a while for me to locate the item Potter was talking about."

"Not to worry," Aunt Petunia replied. "Take as long as you like. I have some correspondence I have to read. If you need anything, don't hesitate to ask. I'll be in the front parlor."

Finally alone with his thoughts, Draco stepped into the broom cupboard, looked up and saw that the sloping ceiling was nothing more than the set of stairs above. At the far end of the cupboard, where the ceiling was higher, a set of shelves with some cleaning supplies stood against the wall. Next to the shelves, along the adjacent wall, Draco noticed a desk—incongruous in a broom cupboard—and the desk was small enough to be meant for a child to use. He moved toward the desk, as slowly and respectfully as one might move through a graveyard, and picked up the sole item on the desktop, a tiny toy horse made of plastic. Draco pulled away the chair nestled against the desk, a chair too small for an adult, and he sat down on the edge of the chair. From his seat, he looked slowly around in a circle, seeing what Harry must have seen throughout his childhood, this sad little universe… no windows, no breeze, no sunlight… and he imagined the hammering sound of feet stomping against the stairs above his head.

"Harry." Draco spoke the name out loud, and the sound of his own voice speaking the name was strange. Ever since first year, he'd only said the name "Harry Potter" a handful of times, usually in a demeaning context. But he'd never spoken Harry's given name by itself… almost never.

Finally, Draco's head cleared enough for him to remember what he was there for. He looked over toward the light bulb, and then down at the floorboards directly underneath—yes, one of the boards looked as though someone had pulled out the nails and then set the board back in place. He lifted the floorboard up and found the toy train engine Harry had described. Unlike the little horse on the desk, this toy was made of metal and painted bright red, the single most cheerful item in the broom cupboard. Draco replaced the floorboard and sat back down at the desk. He set the train engine on the desk and gave it a push, letting it roll for a bit before stopping it with his hand before it could fall of the edge.

Draco remembered the countless times when he'd resentfully called Harry the pampered Golden Boy. Now he saw the terrible wound that was Harry's childhood for what it was and wondered how he could ever heal that wound. Did anything powerful enough exist that could mend that kind of hurt? The answer came to Draco the moment he asked himself the question: affection and tenderness, exactly what fate had denied Harry all those dismal years in this broom cupboard. In his mind, Draco saw a shining image of Harry's green eyes gazing into his own.

"Angel eyes," Draco whispered.

Draco held the little red train engine in his hands and patiently waited for his tears to come, but none did. The last time he had cried was when he was seven years old… almost the last time, anyway. The memory was still vivid. He saw the image of seven-year-old Draco wearing short pants in the middle of summer, tripping and falling on some stone steps at Malfoy Manor and skinning his knee rather badly while his father was reading a book nearby. Maybe the incident stood out so clearly in Draco's memory because Lucius had always loved his son dearly and took the trouble to show it. Draco had gotten up from the ground, his knee bleeding, and a few small tears had escaped down his cheek. His father's look of surprise and disappointment had been a huge shock to Draco. His tears had stopped instantly, and his father's words had held him riveted:

"Draco! I expect you to behave like the fine young man you are. I certainly don't expect you to cry like a cranky little baby. Now get in the house and ask your mother to clean you up. I don't expect to see any more foolish tears." From that day forward, Draco had never shed a single tear… almost never.

Draco looked down at Harry's toy train engine, and he realized that something began to change ever since that day last June at the edge of Hogwarts Lake, the day when Harry told him about the crazy dreams he'd been having, the day after Harry's ill-advised rendezvous with Kyle Urquhart. Ever since then, Draco had begun to see Harry differently, and somewhere along the way, he'd become more attached to Harry than he was willing to admit.

Where were all his previous notions about Harry? All that remained was regret—for the sixteen-year-old Draco who had never treated Harry as anything other than a rival… for the eleven-year-old Draco who secretly wanted to convince Harry to be his friend… for never having had the courage to show Harry affection. And now all his assumptions about Harry lay in ruins, rusted away or crumbled into dust. Draco desperately wanted to cry for the shattered childhood of the boy he'd grown so fond of. But the tears wouldn't come, so he just took the red train engine with him and walked out of the broom cupboard, closing the door behind him. Draco walked down the hallway toward the front parlor, hoping he would never again lay eyes on that wretched little broom cupboard under the stairs.

Aunt Petunia was perched on the chaise lounge in the middle of the parlor, and she rose, putting down her correspondence, when Draco entered.

"I trust you found what you were looking for?"

"Yes," Draco said, holding up the toy train engine. "Just a silly childhood toy, but the school project requires some item that's been in his possession for many years. I needn't take up any more of your time this evening. You've been most gracious."

"No trouble at all," Petunia said.

Draco took his leave and headed up Privet Drive to a discreet location where he could use Dumbledore's Portkey, the Cuban cigar, to transport himself back to Hogwarts Castle. Casting one last glance around the neighborhood, Draco decided that a little bit of respectable, suburban Surrey goes a very long way.

* º * º *

Voldemort had been at it for days now, torturing Harry in dreams. And still Harry slept, a prisoner of Voldemort's sadistic whims. Harry suffered the illusion of being tied down, a large metal container of warm water suspended over his head. A small hole in the bottom of the container allowed a slow series of drops to fall on Harry's cheeks. He could see Voldemort's horrible grimace above him, and finally Harry shut his eyes to it, giving himself up to the misery of the dripping water, but at least shutting out the sight of Voldemort's face. Harry had become wild with despair. Day after endless day of slowly dripping warm water, but Harry slept on. Finally, Harry knew he had to look into Voldemort's eyes without showing fear.

Conquer fear and I'll win, Harry thought, because fear is the only thing that sustains Voldemort.

Harry took several deep breaths—eyes still closed—willing himself to remain calm. He felt another blasted drop of warm water hit his cheeks. If he just kept breathing evenly, he could maintain control, in spite of what he had to face: Voldemort's grotesque red eyes and loathsome grimace. But he was determined to look straight into those red eyes just to prove he wasn't afraid. Harry forced himself to open his eyes.

_Iron._

The first color that caught Harry's attention was the color of iron, and images of the wrought-iron gates and window grills that graced parts of Hogwarts Castle danced through his mind. Iron gates and window grills always evoked thoughts of home and shelter and protection because Harry associated them with Hogwarts Castle, a haven where he was free from the Dursleys' ill will… and Harry realized he was staring into the eyes of Draco Malfoy, who was sitting on the edge of the bed and leaning over him. Then he felt another warm drop fall on his face. Harry lifted his hand to wipe the drops from his face, and he finally understood that the drops were Draco's tears. Harry didn't have much time to be astonished by any of this because his thoughts were cut short by the first word out of Draco's mouth.

"Harry," Draco said.

Harry's thoughts tripped over each other, and all he could say in reply was "My name."

Draco slipped his hand under Harry's pillow and adjusted it so that Harry could shift his head up. "You've been asleep for seven days because of Trelawney's spell. As soon as you were under the spell, we all saw you going through fits of terror in your sleep, and we knew it was Voldemort who was causing it." Draco reached out and ran his fingers through Harry's forelocks. "Harry, I was worried. You were suffering so much."

Harry closed his hand around Draco's and said, "Say my name again. I like the way you say my name."

Draco leaned in closer. "Harry." Now he slid his entire arm under Harry's pillow. "It's a beautiful name. I'll never tire of saying it."

Harry squeezed Draco's hand harder. "Your name means dragon. Like a combination of Gryffindor and Slytherin—the head of a lion and the body of a serpent," Harry mused. "Draco." Then Harry's voice lowered to a whisper. "Draco." Harry wanted to move closer to Draco, but he lifted himself up too quickly, and his eyes squeezed shut as a sharp pain went through him. He dropped back down on the pillow. "… hurts too much."

"Try not to move too much at once." Draco brushed the back of his hand across Harry's forehead in a slow, tender movement.

Harry inched his back up against the headboard, trying to sit up. "I'm sore all over and I still feel tired."

"We were expecting that," Draco said. "The spell Trelawney used doesn't just put someone to sleep for seven days. It also allows anyone with a link to the person's mind to enter their dreams. Voldemort must have put you through the wringer. Professor Snape showed me the documentation for the spell."

Harry started and panic flashed in his eyes. "Professor Snape! I was supposed to go to my uncle's house over the weekend and get that toy, the one Professor Snape was going to use for his potion. He needed to finish the potion by the evening of the new moon—that's Thursday. What day is it?"

"It's Thursday night and it must be near midnight." Draco laid his palm against Harry's chest and gently pushed Harry back down against the pillow. "Snape has the toy train engine, the one you had when you were a child. He's already finished the potion."

"But how… ?"

"Don't you remember? You told me where it was hidden. In the broom cupboard under the stairs. Underneath the floorboard, right under the light fixture. I had to go to your uncle's house and get it myself."

"You?"

"Dumbledore thought your aunt and uncle might feel too intimidated if a faculty member went. He figured they would be less guarded and more willing to cooperate if a student went."

Harry scowled, hardly daring to look up, as he pictured Draco meeting his aunt and uncle. "And you met both of them?"

"Your uncle and cousin weren't there. It seems your uncle wanted to take your cousin to the home of one of his business associates, and they were spending the evening there. Only your aunt was at home."

Harry began to fidget and twist the edge of the bed sheet between his fingers. "Was she rude to you?"

"No, Harry, she was very courteous. Your aunt…" Draco's voice began to break, "… she's a superficial person… I mean, she judges people by appearance. Her first impression of wizarding folk was Hagrid—and, of course, she grew up with your mother, whom I think she always hated. She rather took a liking to me… perhaps it was my clothes or manner." Draco forced a humorless laugh. "Your aunt told me that she thought I must be from a very cultivated family, and she was surprised I was hanging around with anyone at Hogwarts. She suggested it would be to my advantage to associate with a better sort." Draco looked away from Harry. "Your aunt and uncle have always hated you. She couldn't have made that plainer."

Draco closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath and continued. "I didn't let on to anything because I wanted her to cooperate and get your toy train engine for me. I explained that I was taking some classes with you and that we needed one of your childhood belongings for a school project. I told her where you'd hidden it, under the floorboard in the broom cupboard."

Harry's eyes went wide. "You mean Petunia went to the broom cupboard and looked for my toy train engine while you waited?"

"No." Draco's tone was hesitant and almost shy, which was uncharacteristic for him. "Your aunt told me I could track it down in the broom cupboard myself." Draco opened his mouth, but no words came at first. He had to continue, had to tell Harry what came next, no matter how hard it was to say. "Your aunt told me everything. She showed me the smallest upstairs bedroom and told me your cousin used it for toys when he was a child. But then after you started at Hogwarts—and I think it really disgusted her to do it—your aunt and uncle let you sleep there. The only reason they did it, she said, was because they thought Dumbledore might give them trouble otherwise. The broom cupboard under the stairs was all they gave you for a bedroom until you were eleven. I looked through the broom cupboard myself."

"Harry…" Draco had to look away again. "All I ever did was treat you with misplaced resentment and call you the pampered Golden Boy. You spent your whole childhood with a broom cupboard for a bedroom, without anyone ever extending so much as a single kindness toward you."

Draco forced himself to look directly into Harry's eyes. "Forgive me. Harry, please… forgive me."

"Draco, you had no way of knowing. I never told anyone about living in the broom cupboard when I was a child, not even Ron and Hermione. I think Dumbledore was the only one who ever knew."

"But you tried to tell me last week, when we were collecting plant samples in the bog. You tried to tell me how your uncle and aunt treated you, but I wouldn't listen. I thought it had to be a joke, and then you just gave up trying to convince me."

Draco moved one knee farther onto the bed and wrapped his arms behind Harry's neck, bringing the two of them closer to each other.

"From now on, if you tell me something, I won't ignore you. Never again. I'll believe you, Harry. I promise."

Harry was just gazing at Draco, rapt, when Draco released Harry, reached down toward the floor and pulled something out of his backpack. He handed Harry something soft that was wrapped in tissue paper.

"I stopped in London on my way back from your uncle and aunt's house. I got you something for later in the year, when it's cold."

Harry peeled away the fine white tissue paper and found himself holding a gray scarf made of the softest material he had ever felt in his life. He brought it up to his face and let it caress his skin, and he looked up at Draco, eyes all full of wonder.

"How can anything feel this soft?"

Draco chuckled and said, "It's cashmere."

"I've never had anything this fine before. My uncle and aunt only gave me my cousin's hand-me-downs." Harry lowered his gaze toward the scarf. "I never had nice things."

"I know. Your aunt and uncle didn't want you to have nice things. But I do."

"Draco? You know what I miss even more? Some kind of shelter from all that hostility… you know, first from the Dursleys, then from Voldemort. I mean, I really don't mind everyone expecting me to do the world some good and defeat Voldemort. I guess there's no way out of it, even if I wanted to avoid the fight."

"No, I don't think there's any way out of it. Voldemort picked you, and you're going to have to face him."

"But it wasn't something I asked for. It was only chance, something that happened when I was one year old. If it hadn't been for Voldemort making me his target, I would've just been some scrawny anonymous first-year student that no one paid any special attention to, and you know, that would've been fine with me."

It occurred to Draco that Harry didn't see himself the way others saw him. Scrawny? That lithe, beautiful body was so inviting that Draco found himself examining every inch of Harry's form. As unsettling as it was to think of Harry that way, he imagined peeling off Harry's bedclothes, like gift-wrapping paper.

Harry was certain he noticed something different in Draco's expression, something he hadn't detected until now. Draco's chest was so close, and Harry took a chance. It was outrageously ambitious, but Harry deposited his head directly on top of Draco's chest. So what if Draco was probably straight? Who cares what his Slytherin pals might say? The hell with it. Harry decided that, under the circumstances, the best strategy was to keep talking.

"People think it's my job to rid the world of Voldemort, so I just drag myself through everything he throws at me. Between the Dursleys and Voldemort, it's one storm after another, and I always wind up cold and wet."

Draco battled with himself to maintain some sense of decorum, and lost. He reached his arms around and pressed Harry's head even more securely against his chest.

"A never-ending storm with no shelter," Draco said, and then he brushed some silken waves of black hair out of the way and planted a soft kiss on Harry's forehead. He lifted Harry's chin up until they were eye-to-eye.

"Pomfrey and Dumbledore tell me you're not going to be feeling great for a couple more days, with everything Voldemort's put you through. The last seven days have been hell for you." Draco laced his fingers with Harry's. "Let me be your shelter, all right?"

Harry uttered a soft moan. Some switch inside his mind toggled from off to on. Harry's tears finally came, and they were tears of relief.

"OK, Draco. You take care of me."

Draco cradled Harry in his arms and looked out the window at the night sky. Even though he knew it was the night of the new moon, Draco still missed the moonlight, but he knew there would be other full moons. Last week when they were out in the hills and bogs, there wasn't enough of a moon to really see Harry's eyes in full moonlight. Draco scrutinized the color of Harry's eyes by candlelight, counting the different shades of green, and he fancied knowing what Harry's eyes would look like in moonlight. Harry snuggled against Draco's chest, and Draco squeezed his arms tighter around Harry as they looked out the castle window at a sky that was lit only by the stars.


	9. Hospital Recreation

**Title: **Congenital Magnetism  
**Author: **Ascyltus  
**Completed: **Yes  
**Summary: **At the end of his fifth year, Harry displays his effortless knack for landing himself in problematic situations. Luckily, Harry begins to develop some unusual abilities that he has inherited by virtue of being one-quarter Veela. Only Draco Malfoy seems to be immune to Harry's newly found powers.  
**Disclaimer: **This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Chapter 9: Hospital Recreation**

Severus Snape had been focusing his energies on the one task that had become crucial to restoring tranquility to Hogwarts School. He had given meticulous attention to every detail of the potion he'd been developing for the past week and a half, the potion that was tailor-made to counteract Harry's unique Veela powers. Anyone who consumed the potion would hopefully be immune to Harry's powers of Veela attraction, and the finished product was at last ready to test out. Snape's only real option was to use Ron Weasley as the guinea pig since, according to Harry, Ron was the only male student other than Draco who knew about Harry's Veela family background.

Snape sat at his desk, waiting for Ron and Hermione to keep the appointment they'd made to meet in his office, and he reflected on the chances of a successful outcome. Ron had readily agreed to visit Harry in the hospital wing to test out the potion, telling Snape he had the willpower to withstand what he called "all that Veela nonsense." Hermione insisted on coming along, remembering Ron's previous lapse into erotic behavior when they were visiting Harry in the hospital wing one week before, just after Trelawney had cast the spell that put Harry to sleep for a week. Snape had to admit that having another competent person present could only be a plus, just in case the potion didn't work and Ron's behavior… degenerated. Snape shuddered, trying not to think about that possibility.

When Hermione and Ron arrived at Snape's office that Friday evening, they first found it necessary to apologize for being late.

"We're so sorry, Professor Snape," Ron began. "I know we said we'd be here at six fifteen—"

"—and you've managed to arrive a full fifteen minutes late, I notice."

"It was Seamus Finnigan, Professor," Hermione said. "He knew we were going to visit Harry, and he wanted to come with us so desperately. It was everything we could do to keep him from following us here to your office."

"I'm so glad he didn't," Snape said.

"Seamus hasn't seen Harry for almost two weeks now," Ron said. "We told him Harry is doing fine now that Professor Trelawney's spell has worn off, but he wants to see Harry for himself."

Hermione's eyes widened. "I hope he doesn't do anything crazy like surprise us all and show up at the hospital wing looking for Harry."

"That would complete my day," Snape said, as unsettling visions of Seamus attempting to seduce Harry danced through his already over-burdened mind. Snape let his head rest against his hands with his fingers pressing against his temples. After a slow, labored breath, he reached around to the set of shelves behind his desk and retrieved the phial containing the finished potion, then offered it to Ron. "Let's carry on, shall we? This is the potion you need to consume, Mr. Weasley."

Ron downed the potion, grimaced and offered a single remark: "It tastes horrible."

"An excellent indication of its potency," Snape replied. "I see you've brought your wand, Miss Granger."

"Yes, Professor. Ron and I thought it would be better if I were the only one who brought my wand… er, under the circumstances."

"That does make a certain amount of sense," Snape said, watching Ron's face turn pink. "I don't think it will be necessary for me to bring my own wand. I trust, Miss Granger, that you will be able to keep matters in hand should Mr. Weasley require assistance. As I understand, you were able to keep Mr. Weasley under control on the Hogwarts Express by means of… wrapping him in spaghetti?"

Ron raised his hand in protest. "That won't be necessary. Even if your potion doesn't work, I'll be fine." Hermione cast a worried look in Ron's direction as the three of them left Snape's office.

* º * º *

The soft, golden light of the setting sun was still streaming in through the high arching windows of the hospital wing when Snape, Ron and Hermione arrived. Madam Pomfrey received them in the small antechamber near the entrance.

"I would never have believed Mr. Potter could recover this quickly," she told them. "I was certain he would need at least another day or two in bed to recover from the energy drain that You-Know-Who inflicted on him. But I will say that Mr. Malfoy has been very dutiful in visiting Mr. Potter over the past day, and that seems to have had a beneficial effect. Mr. Potter isn't even in bed anymore. He's catching up on some of the reading from the classes he's missed. Come with me. I'll bring you to his area."

Pomfrey led the three visitors through the hospital wing, a vast section of the castle with stone walls and floors, and high vaulted ceilings. The chambers followed each other in a straight line and were separated by arched doorways, although each set of great wooden double doors was opened wide. Pomfrey guided Harry's visitors through two long hospital chambers with beds on either side. Farther on, they entered a third and final chamber; this last chamber had no obvious exit at the far end, although Pomfrey knew of hidden emergency exits.

Pomfrey and the others stopped just past the doorway, near the bed Harry had been using. They spotted Harry, who was ensconced in a large, comfy chair at the farthest end of the chamber. At first, Snape, Pomfrey and Ron kept a large distance away from Harry, remaining near the doorway and not crossing the room to join him. Hermione went forward first, striding across the room to meet him.

"Harry," she said, "I suppose Madam Pomfrey's told you that Professor Snape has finished the potion he was working on for, er…" her tone was bright and optimistic, "… for the special talents you've recently developed."

"Yeah, of course. Erm, that's great."

Ron now dashed across the room and jumped in front of Harry, a little too quickly for everyone's liking. Snape and Pomfrey remained on the other side of room, and their eyes darted back and forth between Ron and each other. Hermione stood stock still, hardly daring to breathe. Ron had a frozen smile cemented in place, his jaw muscles twitched, his eyes were wide-open and there was a crazy, haunted look about him. He stuck his hand straight out to shake hands with Harry.

"How's it going, Harry." Ron's tone was a little too hearty—it seemed forced. As soon as he started to shake hands with Harry, his head jerked to the side, then straightened up, and then jerked to the side again. "I'm the first one who's taken Professor Snape's potion, so I guess we'll just have to wait and see how everything…"

Ron hadn't let go of Harry's hand and started pulling him in closer and closer, and finally wrapped his arm around Harry's waist. Ron's entire body went rigid and then began to vibrate violently, causing Harry to vibrate along with him. Ron's body seized up in one quick spasm, becoming still again. Then Ron abandoned all pretense and began squeezing Harry's bum with both hands while he nuzzled Harry's neck.

"Merlin's pants," Snape muttered.

Pomfrey drew Snape close and spoke low enough so that Ron and Harry couldn't hear. "Severus, I don't have my wand. It's in a drawer at the front desk. And what are all those glittery little things milling about in the air in Mr. Potter's vicinity?"

"The clouds of glitter around Mr. Potter are a phenomena only female observers can see," Snape whispered. "Granger brought her wand. However, I didn't bring my own, and… I rather regret it now."

Ron threw his arm around Harry's shoulder and said, "Let's talk outside the hospital wing. You don't need to be cooped up in here anymore." Ron tried to lead Harry back across the large hospital chamber toward the doorway, but Harry yanked his arm away, holding his ground.

Hermione's mouth opened, and remained open for a moment before she said anything. "Ron, I don't think that's the best idea," she said.

Ron had a shrewd look on his face and said, "Hermione, you're right"—his voice was suspiciously calm—"Harry should stay here with you."

Hermione glared at Ron before stomping in front of Harry and grabbing hold of his arm with both hands, but as Hermione passed him, Ron deftly removed Hermione's wand from her pocket. He pointed the wand toward the large iron chandelier that hung halfway between the high ceiling and the floor, and performed a charm that lengthened the heavy metal chain that secured it to the ceiling.

"No! Mr. Weasley!" Madam Pomfrey's desperate cry reverberated against the stone walls.

The chandelier, its chain increasing in length, lowered to where it was even with Ron's waist. He pocketed Hermione's wand, seized a mattress from a nearby bed and threw it across the center area of the chandelier, fitting it snuggly into place.

Pomfrey's voice rang out again. "Mr. Weasley, stop!"

Harry's attention was captured by the traveling chandelier, and Ron caught him off guard, pushed him onto the mattress and tackled him, trying to pin him against the mattress. Harry was struggling with Ron and just about to gain the upper hand, but before Harry was able to break free, Ron pointed the wand at the chandelier chain and performed the reverse charm. The great metal chain magically shortened, and everything—chandelier, mattress, Harry and Ron—was lifted back to the original height, high above everyone's head and closer to the ceiling rafters. The chandelier seemed to serve as a makeshift tree house, inaccessible to those below, which was exactly Ron's intention.

"You're activating…" Pomfrey's face had drained of all color and she took a gasp of air, "… you're activating the hospital wing's ceiling suspension chain!"

The next sound to capture everyone's attention was metal grinding against metal. An entire section of the stone wall at the far end of the chamber, near the comfy armchair, disconnected itself from the rest of the wall and lowered down until it was parallel with the floor, like the gangplank of a ship. Pomfrey rolled her eyes, as though expecting this, and the various other stunned observers now saw that the stone gangplank supported a gigantic chain spool. The heavy-duty chain was indeed attached to the chandelier. Monstrous metal gears, on either side of the chain spool, cranked around in an impressive display, releasing more of the chain and causing the chandelier to first lower a few feet and then rise up until it was near the ceiling again.

The conveyor system now appeared. A strip of the ceiling plaster running the entire length of the chamber disappeared to reveal a metal track, and the chandelier was propelled forward a couple yards. The whole process repeated itself, and the chandelier holding the mattress, Ron and Harry went down a few feet, then up near the ceiling, and then forward a couple more yards along the ceiling track.

All of this took Ron by surprise—understandably—and on the second descent, Ron dropped Hermione's wand. She seized the opportunity, snatched the wand off the floor and waited for the jolly chandelier to descend a third time. First, Hermione used her wand to release more of the chain and bring the chandelier much closer to the floor. Down came the chandelier, Hermione pointed her wand and—

The spell she was ready to cast was meant to immobilize Ron. But the descent toward the floor was bumpy and lurching, and as the chandelier neared the ground, Harry and Ron fell off the mattress and tumbled onto the floor—just as Hermione's spell flew through the air.

_"Accio Pâtisserie!"_

Instead of hitting Ron, the spell hit the mattress, all activity of chains and gears halted, and the chandelier remained at its present height, a few feet off the ground. Harry and Ron were getting up off the floor and dusting themselves off when they stopped to admire what everyone else was staring at: the chandelier gently swinging just above the floor had, in its center section, a mattress encased in a single enormous French croissant.

Pomfrey took command of the situation at once. "Mr. Weasley, remain where you are. Miss Granger, I think you can lower your wand. This chandelier is clearly no longer of use as a vehicle. Severus, I trust you can hold Mr. Weasley at bay until I fetch my wand from the front desk."

Ron cringed as Snape riveted him with a glare of frightening intensity. "I assure you," Snape said, "that will be no problem."

Pomfrey cast the unlocking spell on the doors wandlessly.

_"Effringo!"_

The doors swung open and Pomfrey's mouth dropped. There stood Draco Malfoy, as calm and collected as though he were strolling through the park.

"There was no one at the front desk," he said by way of explanation, "and since I've been visiting Potter off and on over the last day or so, I thought it would be easier if I found my own way through the hospital wing."

Draco ambled into the room and his eyes locked with Harry's. Draco needed some kind of physical contact with Harry, needed it so much. He wanted to hold Harry, kiss him, anything, but he looked around and saw the curiosity on everyone's face. Draco just smiled softly at Harry, nodded and said, "Potter."

Harry, too, had noticed the perplexed looks he and Draco were getting, and sighed in relief when Draco called him by his surname. Harry was starting to feel like he was sharing a secret with Draco, a secret they were keeping from the rest of the world. He smiled back at Draco and nodded.

"Malfoy."

"Madam Pomfrey," Draco said as he looked around the room and up at the ceiling, "I'd never realized the hospital wing was equipped with this sort of hardware."

"Mr. Weasley attempted to use the chandelier to keep himself and Mr. Potter beyond anyone's reach." Pomfrey's voice still betrayed her agitation, but she managed to continue explaining. "He didn't realize the hospital wing has a ceiling suspension chain for hanging pieces of heavy equipment from the ceiling. Mr. Weasley was…" she reddened, trying to maintain control, "… making sexual advances on Mr. Potter."

"I'm standing a foot away from Harry," Ron said, raising his voice, "and I'm doing no such thing."

Everyone turned to look at Ron and realized he was telling the truth.

Harry was scowling. "I have an idea, but I have to make sure first." Harry wound his arms around Ron's neck and waist. "You're sure you don't want to get romantic?"

Ron squirmed, trying to get free of Harry. "I'm quite sure, thanks. And Harry"—Ron started laughing—"I know you're trying to prove a point, mate, but you can unwrap yourself from me anytime now." Ron was determined to put some air space between the two of them, and Harry relented.

"I don't understand," Pomfrey said. "Only minutes ago you were groping Mr. Potter in the most lewd, obscene fashion, but now…"

Hermione joined in. "Now you're back to your usual self," she said, trying to put the clues together and solve the riddle that confronted her. "So what's different now that wasn't the case a few minutes ago?"

Pomfrey put her hand on Snape's arm. "I'm sorry to say so, Severus, but it wasn't your potion. And you know how I've always said you're one of the most brilliant members on our faculty. But in this case…"

Snape gave Pomfrey a small, grateful smile. "No need to be diplomatic, Poppy. My potion was a failure of epic proportions. I was certain Mr. Weasley would shortly begin to molest Mr. Potter on that mattress," Snape said, pointing to the mattress that was now encased in a massive French croissant, with only the corners and sides of the mattress poking through.

Draco sauntered over to the chandelier with its unusual cargo. "Well now, what have we here? Why, Granger"—a blush was already scalding Hermione's cheeks—"this looks to all the world like an enormous mattress-stuffed croissant." Draco tore off a morsel of the croissant and popped it in his mouth. "Very tasty indeed. Light and flaky and buttery, with just the right touch of sugar. Of course, I wasn't present when this mattress underwent its transformation, but why do I suspect your hand in this, Granger? Can you tell me?"

Hermione's face was becoming progressively redder.

"And by the way, Granger, that's a very attractive blush. I think it suits you."

"Hey, watch it, Malfoy," said Ron, who was clearly not amused.

"No worries, Weasley. I'm not making moves on your girlfriend. Just an innocent compliment."

"All right, Malfoy." Hermione was quietly fuming. "It was a culinary spell. I was aiming at Ron because he was on the mattress with Harry, and I had to… stop him somehow."

"Weasley." Draco's voice was ever so cheerful. "You devil. I really have to rid myself of my tedious old preconceptions about you being entirely straight."

"I _am_ straight!"

"And may I inquire," Pomfrey asked, "what exactly is a culinary spell?"

"Granger has come up with quite a few of these," Draco offered. "Let's see, there were those three spells on the Hogwarts Express; one wrapped Weasley in spaghetti and one bound Greg's hands and feet together with caramel candy. And let's not forget the grand finale. One of the other students nicked Granger's spell book and found a spell that encased Pansy in a giant container of tapioca pudding. And now it seems Granger has added something new to her repertoire: this charming bakery creation. I think she's developing a new branch of magic altogether. It's a kind of hybrid craft—a cross between magical spells and Muggle cooking."

Snape shook his head and said to no one in particular, "I don't know what this world is coming to."

"Hey," Harry said, unable to resist, "is pâtisserie the French word for pastry?"

Pomfrey cut in impatiently. "That will do, Mr. Potter."

"But I still don't understand," Hermione said. Once she latched onto a problem, she was tenacious and refused to give up until she arrived at a solution. "Ron isn't affected by Harry's Veela attraction anymore. If it's not Professor Snape's potion, then what is it that's affecting things now that wasn't when we arrived?"

Harry looked over at Hermione and wondered why she couldn't grasp the obvious, in spite of her intelligence. "Malfoy's here," Harry said in a small voice.

"That's right," Hermione said, "Malfoy's here now and he wasn't when we first arrived, but I don't see what difference that would—"

"And the same thing happened one week ago," Harry added, "just before Professor Trelawney cast the spell that put me to sleep for a week."

"What same thing happened?" Snape asked.

"We ran into Dean Thomas and Michael Corner," Harry said, "but they weren't affected by the Veela thing at all. And so, I thought the only explanation was because Malfoy was with me."

Draco continued to explain where Harry left off. "It was late Thursday afternoon, several hours before Professor Trelawney cast her spell on Harry, and Potter and I were walking back to the castle. We were walking through one of the fields to the east of the castle, and we were talking to each other as we were walking, not really paying attention to what was ahead of us. Before we realized it, Dean Thomas and Michael Corner were almost in front of us. I thought maybe Thomas and Corner would try to waylay Harry. We might have gotten them to eat a pumpkin pasty with cinnamon, but we hadn't remembered to bring any with us."

Madam Pomfrey wasn't certain she had heard correctly. "A pumpkin pasty with cinnamon, did you say? What earthly good would that have done?"

"Ultimately, no good at all," Snape said. "Some misguided researchers had sought to counteract the effects of Veela attraction by asking their experimental subjects to consume cinnamon—"

"A cooking spice? !" Pomfrey could not quite believe her ears. "What a preposterous notion."

"My sentiments exactly," Snape said. "The researchers discovered that cinnamon gave their subjects temporary immunity to Veela attraction for a period of about 12 hours on the first two occasions on which they consumed it. However, it had no effect at all after the second occasion on which the subject consumed it."

"Ron," Hermione said, "that's why you acted the way you did when we visited Harry here in the hospital wing a week ago. You ate three pumpkin pasties with cinnamon before we got here, but it didn't do any good at all. That must be because you had already used cinnamon twice: the tapioca pudding you ate before you got off the Hogwarts Express and the pumpkin pasty you ate just before you met Harry in the Room of Requirement."

"Yes, Mr. Weasley," Pomfrey said, "you visited Mr. Potter a week ago today. That was the first occasion on which you were… _groping_ Mr. Potter." She scowled at Ron. "And on top of it all, you were groping him while he was being kept asleep by Professor Trelawney's spell. Shameless." Ron's face was almost as red as his hair.

"But please continue, Mr. Malfoy," Snape said. "How did Mr. Thomas and Mr. Corner react when they saw Mr. Potter?"

"They didn't act unusual in the least. They were standing right next to Potter, but didn't show the slightest inclination to get into his pants."

Snape coughed loudly. "Thank you for that summary, Mr. Malfoy, but could you explain why this effect hasn't made itself known before, for example, when you and Mr. Potter were collaborating on your project in the Potions classroom, or for that matter, on the Hogwarts Express at the beginning of term?"

Draco shrugged and arched his left eyebrow in that manner Harry always found so seductive and distracting.

Harry answered instead. "Draco and I were getting on better with each other for the first time. It was different than before, on the Hogwarts Express or in the Potions classroom. It was the first time when we were having fun being together. We were just enjoying… er… the pleasure of each other's company. I think that was when Draco's presence started having a different effect on my Veela powers."

Hermione was now confronted with the unthinkable: Harry was calling Draco by his given name. Hermione opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out at first. Her eyes were wide with shock as she absorbed this alarming new information. Finally, her voice came back to her.

"Draco? ! Oh, so it's Draco now, is it, Harry?" The pitch of Hermione's voice rose higher. "The two of you are on a first-name basis?"

"Malfoy," Harry blurted out. "I mean Malfoy."

Snape's eyes narrowed as he considered Harry for a moment. Snape finally spoke, making his suspicions clear in a velvet tone. "The two of you had finally reached a friendly accord? Or perhaps more than friendly?"

As always, Harry found it impossible to lie. "Maybe a little more than friendly."

A pall of silence hung over the room, and it seemed no one had the nerve to speak. After a long interval, Snape broke the silence.

"Mr. Malfoy?"

Draco smiled enigmatically, and then shrugged.

Ron had reached his breaking point. "That's ridiculous!" he shouted. "Harry, you're saying that Malfoy counteracts the Veela thing whenever he's around you? What, he's supposed to be your lucky ferret now?"

"Put a lid on it," Draco shot back, "and don't be such an interfering weasel. I don't think it would be that surprising if my presence were doing some good."

"Ron, Malfoy," Hermione said, losing her patience, "you two arguing all the time doesn't help matters. Would you try to compromise just a little?"

"Ask him!" Draco and Ron shouted in unison, creating a stereo effect.

Harry shook his head, looking back and forth between Ron and Draco, and quietly voiced his concern. "I wonder if the two of you were separated at birth?"

The comment rubbed Ron the wrong way. "That's not the least bit funny, Harry!"

"Hey, Harry, there you are!" Seamus Finnigan's voice drew everyone's attention at once as the Irish boy strode into the room and stopped in front of Harry.

"Mr. Finnigan," Pomfrey objected, "you do not have permission to simply wander through the hospital wing at will."

"But there was no one at the front desk. And everyone's been hiding Harry from me even though I've asking about him for a week now."

Hermione was kneading her fingers. "Professor Snape, I _knew_ Seamus would follow us here. Ron and I asked him not to, but he just wouldn't give up."

"And sure enough," Snape intoned, "the icing on the cake has arrived. My day is now complete."

"Wait," Hermione said looking at Seamus. "Stand right next to Harry."

"I am standing next to him," Seamus replied.

"Closer," Hermione said.

Seamus moved closer until his shoulder was touching Harry's.

"Close enough?" Seamus asked. "So what is this supposed to prove?"

"That you're not trying to get Harry into bed," Hermione said.

"I promise you, Hermione," Seamus said, "I'm not trying to shag Harry."

"Professor Snape," Hermione said, "I was trying to figure out if your potion really _did_ work successfully on Ron, and it was just a delayed effect. But that's impossible. Even if the potion had a delayed effect, that wouldn't explain why…"

Snape continued Hermione's train of thought. "Yes, Miss Granger, I see your logic. It wouldn't explain why Mr. Finnigan seems to be immune because he hasn't consumed my potion. And as far as Mr. Finnigan consuming anything containing cinnamon—"

Harry jumped in. "We got Seamus to eat a pumpkin pasty with cinnamon last week in the Potions classroom, right after Blaise. It worked on both of them the first time. When we tried it on Blaise the next day, it didn't work."

"Ah, yes, Mr. Potter," Snape said. "How can I forget the memorable occasion on which Mr. Zabini tried to have his way with you on top of a storage cabinet? But I can see what conclusion you're coming to. Mr. Finnigan has already consumed something containing cinnamon twice before being exposed to your presence: Miss Granger's tapioca pudding on the Hogwarts Express and the pumpkin pasty in the Potions classroom. If he had inadvertently consumed something with cinnamon today, it would have no effect in any case. So the only possible agent that is giving Mr. Finnigan immunity today would be—"

"Malfoy? !" Hermione said the name as though it were a word from a foreign language.

Ron looked at Draco, scrutinizing the details of Draco's face and body for the first time in his life. "I don't get it. What would _you_ have to do with counteracting Harry's Veela powers?"

Hermione's eyes seemed focused either on nothing at all or something far in the distance. "I suppose we have to accept the possibility that Malfoy is neutralizing the Veela attraction Harry projects, at least when he's near Harry."

"That may well be the case," Snape said, "but there still remains the problem of Mr. Potter's Veela powers when Mr. Malfoy is not present. Mr. Weasley has given us a convincing demonstration this evening of how dire the situation can become."

"Then I suggest," Draco said, "that Potter and I continue with our Potions project. With randy blokes like Weasley running about, we're racing against the clock, aren't we? Who knows when Weasley will be in the wrong place at the wrong time? He'll find himself alone with Potter, and I'll be nowhere in sight. And God forbid that the _Daily Prophet_ were to get hold of the story. Oh, who is that winsome creature who writes articles for the _Daily Prophet_? Rita Skeeter? You can imagine the headline, can't you? 'Sex-Crazed Weasel Runs Amok—Commits Ravishment on Fellow Hogwarts Student.'"

"He's right, Professor Snape," Harry said, deciding that he should break in before Draco pushed everyone's nerves past the breaking point. "I know we're close to a breakthrough in our project."

Snape's tone was deadpan. "I tremble to say this, Mr. Potter, but your collaborative project with Mr. Malfoy is our only option at this point."

"You know," Harry said, "I was thinking of sending a letter to Fleur Delacour in France. She knows more about this stuff than just about anyone."

"I think it would be best," Pomfrey said, "if everyone left and gave Mr. Potter a rest. He is supposed to be recuperating from the unfortunate week of energy drain that You-Know-Who was inflicting on him."

Harry objected. "Madam Pomfrey, I feel fine. I'm sure I feel well enough to leave now."

"Mr. Potter, I must insist that you stay in the hospital wing one more night. Tomorrow morning, if you feel as well as you do now, you'll be free to leave."

"Madam Pomfrey," Hermione said, "if I might visit with Harry briefly after everyone leaves."

Pomfrey looked at Snape. "No harm in that, I should think," she said.

"At least she's not a boy," Snape remarked.

"And I'll be visiting Potter later in the evening," Draco added. "Potter and I have to strategize. Our Potions project has to prevent all these blokes from tearing Potter's clothes off and shagging him on the spot. No worries, though. Potter and I will whip out a plan that's rock solid." Ron groaned, but listened helplessly as Draco finished. "By tomorrow morning, we'll have all the explicit details fleshed out."

Hermione and Pomfrey both winced.

"Mr. Malfoy," Snape said, "your choice of words seems almost intentionally cruel. Concerning whatever scheme you and Mr. Potter intend to inflict on an unsuspecting world, I can only adopt a fatalistic approach. Very well, I already have a meeting scheduled with the Headmaster in his office tomorrow morning at ten o'clock. You and Mr. Potter should plan to join us. I will inform the Headmaster that the two of you are threatening to perpetrate another Potions experiment. He may want to review the school's disaster drill procedures."

In view of the recent events in the hospital wing, Madam Pomfrey felt inclined to put in a good word for Draco. "I will say that Mr. Malfoy doesn't create the sort of commotion the others do." She glanced at Ron and Seamus. "Mr. Potter, I'll clean all of this up"—she waved her hand at the low-swinging chandelier, complete with a mattress encased in a huge croissant—"after Miss Granger is finished visiting with you." Pomfrey then gathered together Snape, Ron, Seamus and Draco, and led them out of the chamber, leaving only Hermione and Harry behind.

As Draco passed, Harry pulled him aside and whispered, "Bring your wooden communication board with you. We should get in touch with the Eastern Shore Network, eh?"

Once everyone else had left, Harry flopped back down in the overstuffed armchair, and Hermione perched affectionately on the side of the chair.

"Harry," she began, "I don't pretend to understand this new effect Malfoy is producing—I mean, your Veela powers becoming dormant when he's around you."

"But Professor Dumbledore's already written to Fleur," Harry said, "asking her for information, and he told me what the long-range solution is. If I find a mate, and that person accepts me, then the Veela thing won't affect other people anymore." Harry looked down at his shoes and said in the quietest voice, "You never know. Draco might be my mate." Harry lifted his head up, taking a chance on Hermione's response. When he saw the renewed shock on Hermione's face, he said, "Yeah, we call each other by our first names." Harry eyes were pleading; he was trying so hard to make her understand. "Draco and I really are becoming friends."

Hermione gave Harry the most sensible response she could think of. "Even though you might call each other by first names—even if you're friends—you still have every reason to believe that Malfoy is straight. Look, he's had a girlfriend for some time, for Merlin's sake. That decorous redhead girl from Ravenclaw—" Hermione cast her eyes upwards and threw up her hands. "Oh, I don't even remember what her name is."

"She's not his girlfriend anymore. All right, he told me they went to bed with each other once, but the only reason they were together as long as they were was because their families know each other, and they were pushing Draco and her together. Their families were hoping for some kind of family alliance." Harry looked straight at Hermione, and there was a flash of determination in his eyes. "I don't think it's that unusual for families to push boys into getting a girlfriend, whether they want one or not."

Hermione's look softened. "I suppose you have a point. People do put a lot of pressure on boys to find a girlfriend, and maybe that's part of the reason Malfoy was together with that girl. Maybe he's not as straight as I think." She covered Harry's hand with both of her own hands. "But I care about you, and I don't want to see you hurt. I don't want you to set your heart on something that isn't real. Especially someone like… oh, for the love of everything sacred, Draco Malfoy? !"

Harry laughed and put his arms around Hermione. "He's wonderful with me. You'd be shocked. When I woke up from Trelawney's spell, I felt so sore and weak that I couldn't even stand up. And Draco took care of me like I was part of him. You and Ron have always been the best friends I could have, but Draco shows me the sort of affection that…" Harry's cheeks went pink, "… you know. I think he's starting to like me the way I like him."

"Oh, Harry, I can see you're a lost cause." Hermione slid off the arm of the chair and stood up now. "I'll let you get some rest. And besides, I can barely concentrate enough to hold a conversation with you because of all that glitter material flying around you all the time." She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "Just promise me you'll try to use a little common sense when you're dealing with Malfoy."

Harry listened to the retreating sound of Hermione's footsteps against the stone floors as she left the hospital wing, and he decided to write his letter to Fleur. He included all the information he thought might be of use: the fiascos with cinnamon and Snape's potion, and even more importantly, how Draco's presence had recently counteracted the Veela effect on other people. After Harry finished off his letter, he made his way up to the front desk of the hospital wing, where Madam Pomfrey arranged for a school owl to deliver the letter to Beauxbatons Academy in France.

The only thing left to do that evening was meet with Draco, who had promised to visit later. Harry was thankful he'd remembered to ask Draco to bring the wooden communication board with him. After all, the spirits at the Eastern Shore Network had told them to get in touch after they'd collected all the plant specimens from the bog. But that was over a week ago. Who would have known that the whole project would get derailed by Trelawney and her spell-gone-wrong?

Harry walked back toward the chamber of the hospital wing where he'd been staying the past week, reclaimed the armchair and picked up reading where he'd left off, intending to study for classes until Draco showed up to visit. Harry soon found it difficult to keep his eyes open; he needed sleep more than he'd realized, if only a little nap. Harry put down the textbook and walked across the chamber to his bed, lay down, but didn't bother taking off his clothes or getting under the covers. It was just a little nap, wasn't it… ?

Harry is back in the middle of his ungodly recurring dream, but now everything is mixed up, and an assortment of images and sounds comes in random order. First, Harry hears the sound of a train passing, loud enough to be a foot away. Then Harry sees Voldemort in a huge ballroom while the jukebox is playing hard-driving big band music from the World War II era. Voldemort struts around the ballroom, holding a rubber cartoon-character chicken and swinging it around in circles. He sees Harry, sneers at him and launches into a stream of invective, continuing to swing the rubber chicken around in circles during his tirade.

"Potter, you imbecilic twit, you are nothing of any interest unless verbal abuse is heaped upon you. Therefore, it is in your own best interest that you submit to my insults. When are you going to throw that tiresome goody-two-shoes Gryffindor routine out the window? All that priggish house-rivalry nonsense—Gryffindor versus Slytherin, blah, blah, blah—what a joke. What in the bloody hell do you think Veela are supposed to do? Pose for holy pictures? As your atonement for being such a sanctimonious git, you will concentrate your efforts on delving into your soul and discovering the lurid debauchery that surely lies within. A good start would be to repeat the sacred mantra of the Veela Nation: Chicka Boom Chicka Boom."

Without warning, the jukebox switches to polka music, and a disembodied hand covered in a white glove and holding a wand rises up out of the jukebox and hurls a spell at Voldemort.

_"Imperio!"_

Voldemort screams in torment. "Aaaaah! I frigging hate polka music!" But the Dark Lord starts to sing along with the music anyway.

Then Harry finds himself on the train platform before the Hogwarts Express leaves, watching a small boy whose face is hidden under the hood of his robe, and Harry knows that this has to be his eleven-year-old self standing next to his suitcase. But why is he always crying like that? Just Voldemort messing with his mind again.

Now he sees his eleven-year-old self in the train carriage with Hermione, and he remembers more of the conversation than he did in his previous dreams.

Hermione is saying, "So there were some questions on the Herbology test that you think you got wrong?"

"Yeah, I think I got the question about Gillyweed wrong," Harry answers.

"Did you get the question about hellebore right?"

"I know I got that right because we had to collect a specimen of hellebore on our own. I had to make a few field trips alone, but I finally found a good location where hellebore grows wild, even mutated varieties. The place is way out in the forest and hard to find, but I wrote down the directions for how to get there in my Herbology workbook…"

"Mr. Potter." Madam Pomfrey's voice was drawing Harry out of sleep. "You have a visitor."

Harry woke up from his nap, shaking off his dream, and saw Madam Pomfrey and Draco standing on either side of his bed.

"I guess I needed a little nap," Harry said, sitting up.

"More likely," Pomfrey replied, "you need a good night's sleep. Mr. Malfoy, try to make your visit a short one. I'll be at the front desk."

As soon as Pomfrey was gone, Harry was sitting on the edge of the bed. "Did you bring the communication device?"

Draco reached into his backpack and pulled out the wooden board he and Harry had been using to communicate with the spirits at the Eastern Shore Network.

"Let's get started," Draco said, sitting on the bed next to Harry, and he laid a piece of parchment on the board.

· · · · · · · · · This is Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter contacting the Eastern Shore Network. Just over a week ago, we collected the plant and flower specimens for the Potions project you're assisting us with. You told us you would give us further instructions at this point for incorporating the plant and flower specimens into the potion we're developing. We would have contacted you sooner, but Potter was detained for about a week.

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • You two gentlemen do get sidetracked, don't you? So what were you up to for a week? • • •

Harry and Draco passed messages back and forth with the Eastern Shore spirits, explaining that Trelawney's spell-gone-wrong kept Harry asleep for a week, and Snape's potion, which everyone had such high hopes for, was a total flop. Then came a message directed at Harry, along with an unexpected gift.

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • Harry, we're not surprised your professor's potion didn't work, brilliant though he may be. The long-term solution to your out-of-control Veela powers will be something you are much more personally involved in creating. Just to demonstrate the extent to which we can help you, the spirits in our association pooled our efforts and obtained a gift for you, a token of our esteem. • • •

A square paper object materialized out of thin air, slowly floating down through the air to land on Harry's bed. It was as if an invisible spirit located near the high-vaulted ceiling of the hospital chamber had dropped the object, but it only became visible halfway through its slow descent from the ceiling to the bed. Harry could only stare at the square piece of paper at first, a Muggle portrait photograph of four people. As he picked up the portrait photo, Harry recognized two of the people as Aunt Petunia and his mother, and they appeared to be in their teens. The other two people were clearly Harry's maternal grandparents. Harry found it hard to speak, let alone understand what branch of magic could retrieve an object from an unknown location and materialize it on the spot.

"My mother," Harry whispered, "and Aunt Petunia… when they were teenagers. And the two older people are my grandparents." Harry looked at Draco. "I've never heard of any kind of magic that can do something like this. The Eastern Shore spirits must have found this photo somewhere at my uncle's house. Aunt Petunia always keeps her personal things in locked cabinets. How were they able to find it?"

Draco eyed the photograph in Harry's hand, scowling. "These spirits have more sophisticated powers than I imagined."

Harry had to find out about this strange new type of magic. He started writing on the parchment.

· · · · · · · · · This is Harry. It's almost unbelievable that you can retrieve an object that was locked up in one of my aunt's cabinets.

The reply from Eastern Shore was intriguing.

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • Harry, we intend to send you another gift—something of real value to you—but we might send it to you when you and Mr. Malfoy are doing research in the boglands or forests, and we need an exact location when we deliver your gift. Can you give us the name of some other person who can accept packages for you or act as an emergency contact when you and Mr. Malfoy are not at Hogwarts? • • •

Harry took the quill and started writing before Draco could say a word.

· · · · · · · · · Would you send any packages to Ron Weasley? And you can use either Ron Weasley or Hermione Granger as emergency contacts. They both stay in the student dormitories in Gryffindor Tower.

Draco sighed in resignation, expecting this. He was getting accustomed to the idea of dealing with Ron and Hermione, however unpalatable the idea might be.

The response from the Eastern Shore spirits was accommodating, if nothing else.

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • No problem at all, Harry. We'll list Mr. Ron Weasley as your alternate recipient for accepting packages, and we'll be happy to explain to Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger any privileges they have as your emergency contacts, should they ask us. And now, can the two of you tell us what types of plant and flower samples you've gathered together? • • •

More messages went back and forth and the Eastern Shore spirits endorsed Harry and Draco's selection of specimens.

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • An excellent assortment and very conducive to the success of your project. Only one vital ingredient is missing: the variety of hellebore whose flowers are red in color. Most hellebore plants in Britain have green flowers, but you will occasionally find a mutated variety with red flowers, and this is the variety you will need to complete your potion. You will probably want to look for this plant in a forest area rather than a bog. Contact us again when you have this last ingredient. Until then, best regards. • • •

All writing disappeared from the parchment, and Draco put the wooden board in his backpack, seeing that there was no further information they were going to get from Eastern Shore tonight. Then Draco picked up the Muggle photograph of Harry's maternal relations and said, "I can see it in all three of them."

"See what?"

"Your mother, your aunt and your grandmother. I can see that seductive beauty that I think comes from their Veela inheritance. Not as much in your aunt because I think she was intent on repressing it."

"Aunt Petunia always tried to be different than my mother because she thinks magic is weird and disgusting. Then last year, she had some sort of sudden insight, and she realized that the attraction my mother held for so many men had nothing to do with magic. She told me all of this when I went back to Little Whinging at the beginning of summer vac. She finally understood that my mother's magnetism was hereditary, and that it was something they had both inherited."

Draco held the photograph up and examined it again. "She might have been repressing it when she was a teenager, but when I visited your aunt's house a week ago, her Veela magnetism was in full gear. She could well have passed for an international fashion model. But I see the Veela traits most of all in your grandmother. Capucine Lefevre Evans? Dumbledore said that was her name, didn't he?" Draco studied the photo more closely. "Your grandmother was full-blooded Veela. I'm sure she had men dropping like flies." He put the photo back down on the bed and slid next to where Harry was sitting. Draco brought his hand up to caress Harry's cheek. "I see it in you too, Harry." Draco stroked Harry's lips with the knuckle of his index finger. "… so bloody gorgeous. It's unearthly."

Harry shifted and looked away. "But it doesn't have any effect on you… like it does on the others."

Draco wrapped one arm around Harry's neck. He took Harry's chin in his hand and turned Harry's head until their eyes met.

"The difference," Draco said, "is that I didn't see this big change everyone else did after you came back to Hogwarts this year. You're just as beautiful to me now as you were the first moment I ever saw you, in Madam Malkin's robe shop."

"No… Really?"

"Yes, Harry. Really." Draco couldn't stop himself. With his arm still around Harry's neck, Draco's body disconnected from his brain once again, and he edged closer until he felt Harry's lips against his own, lips that felt softer than Draco had ever imagined they would. Harry reached up and held onto Draco's shoulders as they kissed. Harry's desire was unmistakable now, and Draco's arms encircled Harry in response. An eternity passed in a few moments while Draco kissed Harry with all the tenderness he'd bottled up for so many years.

The two finally broke away. Draco suddenly felt awkward and had the notion he'd gone too far, so he arranged his escape. He got up from where he'd been sitting and walked to the end of the bed. "I don't think Pomfrey's going to allow me much more visiting time. Right then. We'll meet each other at Dumbledore's tomorrow morning at ten o'clock, like Snape told us. I'm sure we can get permission to spend one more day out in the field. No classes to worry about on a weekend."

"Draco, wait." Harry was still reeling from their brief kiss, but there was something he had to let Draco know. "The last plant we have to get is hellebore, the kind with red flowers. I remember that from first year. Actually, I was dreaming about it while I was napping, just before you got here. It was the end of first year and I was on the Hogwarts Express before it pulled out of Hogsmeade Station."

Draco raked his hand through his hair, leaving it wild and unkempt looking. "I hardly think something from first year would be of any use here."

"No, Draco, listen. I had to gather hellebore for Herbology class, even some mutated varieties, and I went to one of the forest areas around here alone, but I don't remember where it was. I wrote down the directions for how to get there in my Herbology workbook, the one I lost. I never worried about finding that workbook again, but now it might have information that could help us. Maybe I could look in some of the storage cabinets Professor Sprout uses. She might use one of the cabinets as a lost-and-found. I might have left my workbook in the classroom, or maybe in one of the greenhouses…"

"Harry"—Draco's voice was raspy now—"just forget about it. I don't think there's any chance you'll find your workbook after almost five years."

Clearly, Draco hated the whole idea, so Harry gave up. "OK, Draco," Harry said, his voice quieter. "I'll see you in the morning at Dumbledore's office. But… is it all right if I hang onto the communication board tonight? Just in case I have any last minute questions for the Eastern Shore spirits?"

Draco gave in and walked over to the edge of the bed, where Harry was sitting. "No harm in that, I guess," Draco said as he ran his fingers through Harry's hair. He pulled the wooden board out of his backpack and handed it to Harry with a smile creeping across his lips. "Get some sleep, angel eyes."

As Draco walked through the hospital wing toward the front desk, he tried to ignore the uncomfortable prospect of dealing with spirits who had the power to retrieve long lost objects out of thin air.

Finally alone, Harry mulled over the question he had for the Eastern Shore Network. He had to admit that he was unlikely to find his Herbology workbook in one of Professor Sprout's storage cabinets, but a more promising idea had struck him before Draco left—Professor McGonagall's Time-Turner. Would it work when someone was dreaming? It was worth a shot. If he could go back in time an hour or so in his dream, he could find out why he was always crying when he was standing on the railway platform; if he could go back in time in his dream to earlier in the morning, he might even find out where he left his Herbology workbook.

Harry wondered why was Draco so negative about trying to find the workbook, but he knew that if the Time-Turner worked and he found the plant information they needed for their project, Draco would change his mind and he'd be impressed with Harry's resourcefulness. Harry got Draco's wooden communication board out, took the quill and began writing on a new piece of parchment.

· · · · · · · · · This is Harry and I have one last question for the Eastern Shore Network. Can time travel devices work when someone is dreaming? There's this dream I keep having, and if I could go back in time a few hours, I might be able to get some useful information for my Potions project with Draco Malfoy.

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • Greetings, Harry. We were hoping you had access to a time travel device because it might be necessary later on, when you've assembled all your potion ingredients. To answer your question, yes, time travel devices work just as well when you're dreaming as they do when you're awake. Do you have access to such a device? • • •

· · · · · · · · · Yes. I can borrow a device from one of my professors that she calls a Time-Turner. It looks like an hourglass you wear around your neck as a pendant. You turn the hourglass the number of hours that you want to go back in time.

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • Ingenious. When you're connected to our network, we can modify devices like that to use time units other than hours, but we'll discuss that after you've gotten your last potion ingredient. If you'll indulge our curiosity, what information do you think you can find in your dream that will be so useful? • • •

· · · · · · · · · I lost my Herbology workbook at the end of my first year at Hogwarts, and I know I took down some notes about where to find hellebore. When Draco and I talked to you earlier, you told us that was the last ingredient we had to get.

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • We do have certain techniques for locating long-lost objects, as we demonstrated earlier this evening. We'll get back to you on that. In any case, let us know how your own efforts fare. Never hesitate to get in touch if you need our help, Harry. • • •

As the last of the writing disappeared, Harry decided on a plan. He was sure he could persuade Pomfrey to let him leave early in the morning. He had his Invisibility Cloak waiting for him back in his room on the sixth floor of the castle, and Professor McGonagall certainly wouldn't miss her Time-Turner if he borrowed it for a few days. Harry tossed off his clothes, climbed into bed and drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep.


	10. The Face Under the Hood

**Title: **Congenital Magnetism  
**Author: **Ascyltus  
**Completed: **Yes  
**Summary: **At the end of his fifth year, Harry displays his effortless knack for landing himself in problematic situations. Luckily, Harry begins to develop some unusual abilities that he has inherited by virtue of being one-quarter Veela. Only Draco Malfoy seems to be immune to Harry's newly found powers.  
**Disclaimer: **This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Chapter 10: The Face Under the Hood**

Harry was already out of bed when the first weak rays of light colored the eastern sky, and he easily convinced Madam Pomfrey he was well enough to leave. Once he had retrieved his Invisibility Cloak from his room, Hogwarts Castle was at his disposal. Since it was early on a Saturday morning, the Hogwarts greenhouses were deserted, including the one where Professor Sprout housed her storage containers. Harry looked through every container that could possibly contain items that had been lost over the years. Although he saw a number of objects students must have lost in years past, his Herbology workbook was nowhere to be found. But nothing was going to stop Harry; he was single-minded in his resolve to unravel the mystery of his dream and find that stupid workbook. Harry's next destination was Professor McGonagall's office. He had no problem finding the Time-Turner, remembering Hermione's description of its location from third year, and he slipped the hourglass pendant into his pocket.

* º * º *

By midmorning, Harry and Draco were in Dumbledore's office informing the Headmaster and Snape of their plan to roam through the forested areas to the south of the castle and search for the final ingredient for their Potions project. Since Harry and Draco would be nowhere near the Forbidden Forest, which lay west of the castle, Dumbledore had no qualms about allowing them a sojourn in the countryside and instructed them to return by Sunday evening.

Harry and Draco left the castle that morning and were soon flying over a landscape much like the one that had first led them to the wetlands where they had collected most of their plant specimens. On their first trip, they had flown southeast toward the bogs. This time, though, they proceeded directly south, and their passage took them across hills and quiet fields. Finally, they reached a terrain of oak woods, the remnants of the ancient oak forest that once covered the west coast of Scotland. The wooded areas were interrupted by occasional grassy clearings, and they used one such clearing to make their landing. The warm September sunshine cast a soft, golden glow across the woodland clearing. The wild daffodils of spring were no longer in evidence, but a profusion of bluebells still sprinkled the tall grass.

Draco looked toward the darkness of the deep woods. "So we're looking for a certain type of hellebore, right?"

"The mutated variety," Harry said, "with red flowers instead of green flowers. I think hellebore likes to grow in the shade of oak forests, so this would be a good place to start looking."

Draco smiled at Harry as he draped his arm around Harry's shoulder. "Someone's been doing research on this, I can see." The two of them advanced toward the edge of the forest.

"Yeah, but I just wish I hadn't lost that Herbology workbook at the end of first year. I'm sure I wrote some notes about good locations around Hogwarts for finding hellebore."

Draco stopped and took Harry by the shoulders. "That was so long ago, Harry…" Draco slid his arm around Harry's neck, bringing him closer, "… just let it go. We're living in the present, not the past." Draco took a chance and planted a soft kiss on Harry's lips.

"You're right." Harry was basking in the simple affection Draco was showering on him, and he nestled his head against Draco's shoulder. "What's done is done."

Harry and Draco had come to an understanding that their project was a cooperative effort, and it was unrelated to anything that had happened in the past. This worked out well since they had spent the last five years at Hogwarts mainly getting on each other's nerves.

They whiled away most of the day exploring the woods, although without much success, and sunset was approaching. Even though there was still light in the western sky, the woods were dark and secret, and only little patches of light broke through the oaks. They had journeyed into the deepest, most remote end of the forest. No noises could be heard, other than a few birds in the treetop canopy; the fox and the hare must have already bid each other good night and retired for the evening. Draco was just on the point of suggesting that they head back to the clearing where they had first landed, so they would have a place to eat dinner and lay out their sleeping bags, when they spotted a small, weather-beaten hut in derelict condition. The little shack lay in the tiniest bit of clearing.

Draco took Harry's arm. "This will do for the night, don't you think?"

Harry went in first, and the small door was just big enough for him to walk in without stooping. As Draco entered, the top of the doorframe brushed against his hair and he lowered his head slightly. The hinges of the door had come loose from the frame, and the door had to be dragged into place when it was opened or closed. There were no windows, so Draco just left the door open to let the light in. They both threw their backpacks onto the single piece of furniture in the hut, a low workbench, and then set their brooms against a wall. The interior of the hut was paneled with plain pine boards, and the floor was covered with many layers of pine needles, which felt surprisingly comfortable underfoot. A pile of twigs and branches sat beside a brick fireplace in one corner. Harry walked over and tried to scoop up a handful of the smaller twigs to put in the fireplace, but the kindling material had been left there for so long that the twigs crumbled apart at the touch of Harry's hand.

Harry was kneeling by the fireplace and looked up at Draco. "No one's used this shack for ages."

Draco knelt down on the floor, right beside Harry, and wound his arm behind Harry's neck. "That means the shack is ours, angel eyes."

Harry started laughing.

"What's so funny?"

"It's not that it's funny," Harry said, smiling, and laced his fingers with Draco's. "It's just that… you're the first person who's ever called me that."

Draco held Harry's chin and slowly moved closer until their lips were touching. "Angel eyes," he repeated. Harry's lips opened at the touch of Draco's mouth, and Draco kissed Harry's lower lip, holding it gently between his own lips.

There was no mistake about it, as far as Harry was concerned. Draco liked him, and it was in a physical way too, but this was utterly different from anything he would have ever expected. Draco's hands moved across Harry's face and neck with such care and gentleness. No one had treated Harry like that before—no one, ever.

"All right, Harry, I like calling you angel eyes." The corners of Draco's mouth curled up. "It's not just because your eyes are so beautiful." Draco hesitated, and then his tone turned more serious. "I want to remember never to hurt you. I was there at that hateful house in Little Whinging where you grew up. I talked with your aunt and I saw your tiny little upstairs bedroom. I even sat in the broom cupboard under the stairs, that terrible place you slept in for the first eleven years of your life.

"I was drawn to you from the first moment I ever saw you, when you were being measured for your robes in Madam Malkin's shop. But I guess I misunderstood you completely. I thought you'd want to be my friend if I showed you how powerful and influential my family was. My parents always told me that family connections impressed people. But I can see now that was the worst thing I could have done. It only put you off and made you think I was just someone else who would try to hurt you, like your uncle and aunt had."

Draco got to his feet, moved uncertainly to the workbench, took Harry's backpack and brought it back to where Harry was still kneeling by the fireplace.

Draco's smile was unsure. "I'm hungry. You want to perform the charm to unshrink the food so we can make dinner?"

Harry was spellbound by everything Draco had told him since they'd entered the hut, and he ignored Draco's question about dinner. Instead, he rose to his feet and wrapped his arms around Draco in an embrace so fierce that Draco found it difficult to breathe. After a long while, when he'd regained his presence of mind, Harry unshrunk the food he'd packed, and the two shared dinner as the sun set and the light streaming through the door became fainter.

After they'd finished dinner, Draco got his wand, took Harry by the hand and led him outside the hut. "I know we haven't found this plant we're looking for, but I have an idea." Draco led Harry just beyond the clearing, and they both peered into the underbrush.

"What I'm thinking," Draco said, "is that this mutated hellebore… with red flowers?"

"Right. We've only seen hellebore with the usual green flowers so far."

"It might be one of those species you mostly see at night," Draco continued.

"Could be." Just then, a hare, sensing their presence, shot away from them. "I love to watch animals," Harry said, looking in the direction the hare had gone, "but the ones in the forest always run off before I can catch sight of them."

Draco put his arm around Harry's shoulder. "I told my mother the same thing when I was a child because Malfoy Manor is surrounded by woods and meadow, and I love to watch all the animals just like you do. So she taught me a spell that makes animals' fear of humans disappear for a short time. Watch."

Draco raised his wand and recited an incantation. Then he slowly walked with Harry through another area of brush not far from the hut. They stopped short because a couple feet ahead of them, lit by the rays of the setting sun, were two foxes resting under an oak tree. The foxes were spooned against each other and cast an aura of pure bliss—the simple joy of each other's company.

"See?" Draco smiled, knowing the spell had worked. "They aren't afraid of us."

"Look at them," Harry said. "I'm envious. They're so snug and happy with each other. It's foolish, I guess, to envy them…" his voice broke and died down to a ragged whisper, and his eyes glistened a little too much, "… but I do envy them." There was a yearning in Harry that bespoke someone who was alone and abandoned, which no longer surprised Draco, knowing what he did about Harry's childhood.

Draco closed his hand around Harry's arm and brought him closer, torn between protectiveness and raw desire, then reached his arm around and covered Harry's head with his hand. Harry leaned in, grateful to find shelter. Draco's resistance crumbled, and finally, he submitted to fate and said, "To hell with the rest of the world. We have our own world." Draco slipped his other hand up under Harry's shirt, and the hand happily prowled everywhere within reach. "There's no avoiding it, so let's have it."

Draco gently took hold of Harry's shoulders and led him back inside the hut. By this point, Draco knew how to use the unshrinking spell on the sleeping bags and pillows, and he spread them out next to each other across the soft pine-needle floor. Harry lay down, content to have someone else take care of him for a change, rather than having to fulfill his usual function as savior of the wizarding world. Draco bent over the pile of kindling, gathered some of the thicker branches that were still useable and arranged them in the brick fireplace. Soon he had a fire going that provided the windowless hut with both warmth and light, and wisps of smoke curled out of the chimney. The feeble, rapidly dying light of dusk that filtered in through the door was no longer necessary, and Draco shut the door tightly. He looked down at Harry, who had propped himself up on his elbows, and then knelt down beside him.

Draco stroked Harry's cheek deceptively with one hand while the other hand was pulling at the buttons on Harry's shirt. "How does this come off, I wonder?" The question was absurdly rhetorical since Draco already had half the buttons undone. A shirtless Harry was exacting his own revenge on Draco's shirt, and shortly, liberated articles of clothing flew in random directions. Draco's hands were softly groping Harry's face and loins. He planted reverent kisses on Harry's face and neck as he stroked Harry's ribs, one after the other. All the while, Harry was clutching Draco's arms with wild abandon, finally satisfying his curiosity about what those hard, corded muscles would feel like. Draco showed not the slightest hint of roughness, although his movements were crude and to the point. With infinite tenderness, he held both sides of Harry's chest as the two naked bodies melded into one.

No matter which position they ended up in, it was clear that Draco was wild about the idea of holding Harry by his chest. This was an obsession Draco had developed over years of watching Harry beat him to the Snitch in almost every Quidditch game they had ever played against each other. At first, it was maddening. Gradually, frustration at losing Quidditch games was replaced by fascination with watching Harry's lithe body maneuver about in mid-air with the agility of a hummingbird. What accounted for that agility? What else? Harry's upper body was a study in efficiency; his torso displayed streamlined beauty, lightness and strength with not a bit of extra bulk. During Quidditch games, that exquisitely beautiful chest often gave Draco a hard-on that he had a hell of a time concealing.

When the frenetic blur that was their two bodies had turned tranquil again, a silence overtook them. Draco let his eyes linger over Harry's body, noting that although the paleness of Harry's skin was similar to his own, it was so much more striking in contrast to the soft, loose waves of black hair. _My_ Harry, Draco thought, as he studied Harry's face, certain that each feature was stamped with an otherworldly perfection. Draco held the other boy fast and scrutinized deep green eyes, pale skin and hair as dark as night; he decided that beauty like this was the stuff of legend.

Harry interrupted Draco's thoughts. "You remember the fights we used to have in the middle of Quidditch games, don't you?"

"That was only during the first few years at Hogwarts," Draco replied. "After that, I started to admire your body. I couldn't keep myself from staring at you."

"My uncle and aunt always called me scrawny."

"No, Harry. Beautiful. Your body has superior aerodynamics for playing Seeker position in Quidditch. That's why you always won. It's that perfect, graceful body of yours, especially that beautiful chest. They say that hummingbirds are the only birds that can fly backwards." The corner of Draco's mouth curled up. "Can you fly backwards?"

Harry had to laugh. "No, but I've tried. It doesn't work."

Draco's next words came out of nowhere, drawn out of him by some curious spell Harry's presence was working on him. As honest as the words were, Draco would never have spoken them if he had taken a moment to review them beforehand.

"Harry, do you think it's possible to fall in love when you're eleven years old? Because I think I did, the very first moment I saw you… in that robe shop."

Harry was taken off guard by something so unexpected. "Back then? Really?"

Draco swallowed hard, then answered. "Yeah, really." He cradled Harry in his arms, covering his face and neck with soft kisses, and if it were possible to fall in love at the age of eleven, then Draco was falling in love all over again. He ran his fingers along Harry's ribs again, caressing each one. "Winning those Quidditch games really meant a lot to you, didn't it?"

"It was the only thing I did better than anyone. You and Hermione were always the best students, and I was excited as hell when Professor McGonagall picked me for the team." Harry considered Draco, his voice turning shy. "I guess you resented it, eh? Me winning all the time?"

"Maybe the first year or two, but after that, no." The faintest tinge of pink appeared on Draco's cheeks, and Harry just assumed it was the warmth of the fire. "I was too busy leering at you, I think."

"With the spectacles and everything? Aunt Petunia finally talked me into getting contact lenses this past summer, but before that, everyone at Hogwarts reminded me how goofy I looked with those spectacles."

Draco drew Harry very close, until their chests pressed against each other. He spoke carefully, as one might speak to a foreigner, since Harry clearly didn't grasp what was perfectly obvious to Draco.

"Harry, when I met you in first year…" Draco was almost at a loss. "Something as beautiful as you… beauty like that is not something anyone expects to find in an entire lifetime. Do you really think a pair of spectacles would conceal it?"

"But all the fights in the middle of those Quidditch games. You must have at least been sore at me because of that."

"No," Draco said, looking away, "it didn't bother me all that much."

"How could it not have bothered you? We always wound up wrestling on the ground with our hands around each other's throats—until McGonagall or somebody broke it up."

Draco was now blushing quite red, and Harry realized it had nothing to do with the fire. The guilt was plastered all over Draco's face, as plain as though the words "Out-Of-Control Sex Fiend" were written directly on Draco's forehead. Lying was not an option.

"You were always giving me a hard-on. I egged you on so we'd wind up wrestling over the Snitch or some other stupid reason just so that I could… er…" Draco seemed to be full of unexpected information.

"You liked me that much back then," Harry said, and smiled in sheer wonder. "I wish you'd told me."

"So do I, Harry." Draco sat up in the bed, and his hands were prowling Harry's naked body again. "And all I did when I first met you was scare you away with all that blather about how important and powerful my parents were. All you need is tenderness. Just tell me what else you want."

Harry had heard quite enough from Draco to banish any sane thoughts, so he just threw his arms around Draco's neck and brought his weight down, sending them both crashing back onto the pillows.

"I want round two."

Harry, it seemed, had finally connected with his inner libertine, and it was much later in the evening when Draco, rather drained of energy, was attempting to answer a question Harry had put to him.

"You want to know more about that Ravenclaw girl? I told you she wasn't really my girlfriend—not for long, anyway. Our families fancied us together, we tried it out, but we just didn't click."

Harry was drawing figure eights on Draco's chest with his finger. "The two of you didn't hit it off at all?"

"We got along well enough, but I was expecting passion of some kind. She thought of it all as a pleasant stroll in the park, with some fringe benefits from an advantageous family alliance. Somehow I think that love is more than just a pleasant stroll in the park."

This explanation rang true, Harry decided. There was a new urgency to learn more about each other, and they both indulged their curiosity.

"So your uncle and aunt had no intention of sending you to a wizarding school before Dumbledore forced them to."

"That's right," Harry answered. "They were going to send me to Stonewall High. It's a Muggle school."

"Stonewall…" Draco's left eyebrow arched up. "Rather odd name for a secondary school. For some reason, it sounds like something from American history. Was it the 1960s? No, wait. I think it was one of their generals from the American Civil War. Stonewall Jackson, was it?"

They continued talking about their respective families, and the conversation somehow drifted toward the Death Eaters that Lucius associated with and what they might know about Voldemort and his operations.

"Yes," Draco was saying, "from time to time I've overheard conversations at Malfoy Manor between my father and other Death Eaters about some form of dark magic to attain immortality. I know it has something to do with using objects to store parts of the wizard's soul. Remember when you viewed my mother's stored memory in Dumbledore's office, the part about Voldemort's diary?"

"Yeah, Voldemort was going nutters about your father putting the diary in Ginny's backpack instead of keeping it safe."

"The only thing I ever learned from listening in on those conversations was that Voldemort somehow split his soul in two and then stored the separated part of his soul in an object, so I guess that must have been what the diary was for."

"And you never found out how Voldemort did it? How he split his soul."

Draco shook his head. "The operation required intense hate as the driving force, but I never found out anything more than that."

An odd look came over Harry's face. "I wonder if anyone's ever attempted the reverse operation."

"The reverse operation? How do you mean?"

"I mean if anyone ever tried to merge two souls into a single soul."

"I'd never considered that," Draco said. "But from what I overheard, I know there was some sort of catalyst for Voldemort's soul-splitting operation, and it had to be something involving hate as the magical energy. What kind of catalyst could accomplish what you're talking about—merging two souls into one?"

"I suppose there would have to be a catalyst, something beyond two people just loving each other."

"Probably a trauma of some kind." Draco smiled softly and shook his head. "Where do you come up with these ideas?"

Harry shrugged. "It was just a hypothetical question." Now he saw Draco's smile. "You know, for scientific research."

Draco wrapped his arms around Harry and kissed him soundly. "I've found a scientific researcher with angel eyes." After a long time, Draco released Harry and got out of bed. "I'm going out to look for hellebore plants. We might have better luck at night. Coming with me?"

Harry was finding it difficult to keep his eyes open. "Maybe I shouldn't have, but I woke up at five o'clock this morning."

"On a Saturday?"

"I wanted to take a look at some books in the library," Harry lied, not telling Draco about stopping at Professor McGonagall's office to borrow the Time-Turner. "I just want to take a little nap. You can wake me up in a couple hours and I'll join you."

"You must be dead tired," Draco said, and he kissed Harry on the forehead. "I'll come back later and see if you've had enough rest."

Draco left the hut, and as he opened the door, Harry could see that night had fallen and the forest was enveloped in darkness. Harry put his shirt and pants back on since he wanted to be dressed and ready to go when Draco got back. Just a quick nap, then he'd join Draco to look for hellebore out in the woods.

Harry stretched out on the bed, quietly ecstatic. He never imagined that anyone would have made love to him the way Draco had, that anyone would have touched him and cared for him like that. Draco's words were still running through his head: "I was drawn to you from the first moment I ever saw you." He let the thrill of those words wash over him. Then some annoying inner voice reminded him that Draco had extended his hand in friendship at the beginning of their first year at Hogwarts, but Harry wouldn't even shake Draco's hand. Could that rejection have stung a little? The practical side of Harry's nature now took command, and he coped, as he always did, by forging ahead without making a fuss about past actions.

Draco has so much confidence, Harry thought. He probably just shrugged it off when I wouldn't shake his hand, right? And everything's worked itself out, hasn't it?

Along with Harry's admirable coping mechanisms for getting on with life, came his amusing habit of sweeping any inconvenient doubts under the rug. But now the annoying inner voice wanted to know why Harry was so suspicious of Draco when they first met, as if inner voices had any business asking cheeky questions like that. All right, there was Ron's advice about every wizard-gone-bad coming from Slytherin house, but Ron probably heard that from his family, and there was never any love lost between Ron's father and Lucius Malfoy. So was that particular prejudice about Slytherins ill-advised? Harry continued tidying things up and getting on with life by sweeping further items under the rug.

Harry's annoying inner voice cut in with one last bit of critique. Didn't the Sorting Hat even engage Harry in debate in second year and try to show him how ridiculous his anti-Slytherin prejudice was? Didn't the Sorting Hat suggest that he might have been better positioned for success (and love?) if he had been in Slytherin House? By this point, Harry had swept enough under the rug to form some fair-sized hillocks.

Harry finally lost patience with annoying inner voices and reached into his pants pocket. He took the Time-Turner out and slipped the chain over his head and around his neck. He wrapped his fingers around the hourglass pendant, hoping that maybe his recurring dream would return if he took a nap. Even if it didn't, it wouldn't be very many nights before it did, and Professor McGonagall certainly wouldn't miss the Time-Turner for a few days. Harry couldn't help but smile, thinking how shrewd he was to have asked the spirits from the Eastern Shore Network for advice. _Of course_ the Time-Turner would work during dreams. Devastatingly brilliant. Draco would be so proud of him when Harry found out what happened to his Herbology workbook and discovered the location for mutated hellebore—and Harry longed for Draco to be proud of him. Harry could sense Draco's soul and his own soul growing closer and closer. Couldn't two souls merge into one, like Harry had suggested when Draco told him about Voldemort's soul-splitting experiment? And what was up with Voldemort's crackpot scheme? Splitting your soul in two so that you wouldn't die. How crazy was that? Leave it to Voldemort to come up with something that weird. What was the catalyst again? Something involving intense hate, and from the information Draco had overheard, there would have to be something equally traumatic involving love in order for two souls to merge into one. Obviously, that wasn't going to happen between Harry and Draco. They were simply falling in love, and it was turning out to be a very agreeable journey. So what was wrong with love being like a pleasant stroll in the park? Nothing at all that Harry could see.

Harry let his mind drift, waiting for sleep to overtake him. He knew by now that part of his dream was actually a vision of real events—the conversation with Hermione in the train carriage was an accurate record of past events, exactly as they had happened. But the scene with eleven-year-old Harry crying on the train platform was clearly a fabrication Voldemort had created just to mess around with his mind. Harry always hated the prospect of going back to the Dursleys' at the beginning of summer vac, but he'd never cried about it. So this nocturnal experience was a hybrid, part dream and part vision. Whatever. Harry would get to the bottom of it and nothing would stop him. He knew what he was looking for, he'd gotten expert advice from an association of very knowledgeable spirits and he'd even brought a time-travel device with him. Harry had thought of almost everything. The only thing he forgot was to be careful what he wished for, but it was too late for that because Harry had already fallen asleep.

All at once, Harry is back in his dream observing the events at the end of first year, and he sees his eleven-year-old self in the train carriage with Hermione, telling her he forgot his suitcase. Harry-the-observer gives the Time-Turner one turn, setting it back one hour, just to see what he was doing when he left his suitcase on the platform. Maybe the Herbology workbook fell out…

Harry is now observing from the train platform, and Harry sees his eleven-year-old self a few yards away, in the middle of the platform. There is no one else in sight, and the boy is sobbing his heart out, inconsolable. The face is still hidden under his hood, but he is kneeling next to the suitcase and caressing it as though it were an object of great affection. Harry looks over at the train, expecting to see Hermione alone in the carriage—but she isn't alone. Eleven-year-old Harry is sitting in the seat opposite, chatting away. Wait—that's impossible. How can eleven-year-old Harry be in two places at once? Harry-the-observer looks back at the boy on the platform and sees that the hood has finally fallen back, although the boy is looking down toward the ground. The hood is off the boy's head to reveal the light blond hair, and twelve-year-old Draco raises his head, tears streaming down his cheeks, misery etched on his face.

Harry, the dream observer, is in panic, runs back into the train carriage and hears Hermione and his eleven-year-old self carrying on the exact conversation he remembers from first year, word for word, and Harry realizes beyond any doubt that what he is seeing—_everything_ that he's seeing—is an accurate recounting of past events. Harry runs back onto the train platform. Draco is still crying and softly says, "Harry." Draco pulls a paperback volume out of the deep pocket of his robe. The paperback is large and slim, about the size and thickness of a notebook, and it had been rolled up to fit in the robe pocket. Draco unrolls it now, and Harry instantly recognizes it as his missing Herbology workbook.

Then Lucius appears on the platform and surprises Draco, coming up behind him. Lucius says something to Draco, extends his hand toward the boy, and Draco hands the workbook to his father. Lucius then hauls Draco up onto his feet and leads him away. Harry looks at the window of the train carriage and sees that Hermione and eleven-year-old Harry are still talking, and they haven't even realized Harry's suitcase is missing yet.

Draco and Lucius are walking away, and Harry is screaming at the top of his lungs. Harry is dreaming and he knows no one in his dream can see or hear him, but he's screaming anyway.

"Draco, wait! I have to talk to you!"

Draco, proudly holding a large bunch of hellebore with red flowers, was making his way through the dense forest, not far from the hut where he thought Harry was still asleep. He was using the Lumos charm with his wand to light his way—then he heard Harry's screams. Moments later, Harry came crashing through the brush, tripped and fell a short distance away from Draco, who rushed up and grabbed Harry by the shoulders.

"I'm not dreaming anymore, am I?"

"No, Harry, you're not."

Harry was crying and shaking, and then he seemed to recognize Draco and his surroundings. Harry felt for the chain around his neck. He lifted the Time-Turner up toward Draco with shaking hands.

"This is Professor McGonagall's Time-Turner"—Harry was choking out the words—"Hermione used it during third year to go back in time a few hours so she could take more classes." Harry's voice became more even, although he was still crying. "I asked the Eastern Shore spirits if it would work when you were dreaming, and they told me it would… I wanted to find out what happened to my Herbology workbook at the end of first year."

Draco squeezed his eyes shut. "Why, Harry? What good would it do?"

Harry couldn't stop crying, but his voice grew stronger. "The dream I kept having… it wasn't a dream at all, it was a vision of something that really happened. The boy who was always crying—but his face was hidden by the hood—it was you. It really happened, didn't it?" Harry launched himself at Draco and grabbed two fistfuls of his shirt. "You can't lie to me, Draco. I saw you next to my suitcase—holding my Herbology workbook—saying my name."

Draco knew that lying was futile and his smile was a little sad. "Yeah, it was me, Harry, a foolish boy with wounded pride. I think you can figure it out. I loved you from the very beginning, when I saw you in that robe shop."

Harry let go of the shirt and wound his arms around Draco's neck, looking into the iron-colored eyes that he'd grown so accustomed to.

"Why did you take my workbook?"

Draco didn't have a ready answer. "I…" He seemed to consider his words carefully. "I wanted a keepsake, something that would remind me of you."

Harry held on to Draco tighter. "Why was your father there?"

"He'd come to review my end-of-term exams and meet with my teachers."

"And your father took my Herbology workbook away from you."

"He took it away from me, but I don't know what he ever did with it. He probably just threw it away."

Harry moaned into Draco's chest. "I wanted to look at my notes in that stupid workbook so much… the notes about mutated hellebore. Now I'll never find out what I wrote down."

Draco held up the bunch of hellebore he'd been holding, the red flowers clearly visible by the light of the Lumos charm from his wand. "It doesn't matter. I found it, the mutated hellebore with red flowers."

With that last piece of information, Harry slumped against Draco and closed his eyes in pain. "I always thought it was Voldemort who was sending me this dream, but it wasn't. Voldemort was giving me hell while Trelawney had me asleep for a week, but he had nothing to do with my dream." A few more tears escaped Harry's eyes. "I never gave you a chance, did I? I never thought you'd be able to set your own course and make your own decisions. I believed all that house rivalry stuff. I wouldn't even shake your hand when you offered. You must have hated me for it."

Draco leaned in until his mouth crashed into Harry's, and he tried to memorize the sweet taste and the warm softness before breaking away.

"I forgave you long ago, Harry… and as I recall, I was no prize when I was eleven years old either."

"I couldn't figure out that you really liked me. Why didn't you just tell me flat out?"

"I was too proud. Ingrained Malfoy pride. And you had all your preconceptions about Slytherins that kept blinding you."

"So what happened?"

Draco smiled softly and said, "We grew up."

"But I can't forget you crying like that…" Harry's voice was still ragged, "… and how miserable you looked when you were on the train platform." An agonized, inarticulate sound tore out of him, then words. "I don't understand." The pain shone out of Harry's eyes. "How could I hurt you? I love you."

Words were useless at this point, so Draco just caressed Harry and gently rocked him. The two had fled away to these remote woods, which were lit only by the Lumos charm from Draco's wand, and there was no one but the fox and the hare as witness. For now, the ancient Caledonian forest was an ally; it protected Harry and Draco like a vast cloak and provided them with a temporary haven from a less than sympathetic world. Neither one of them had a clue as to how they were going to explain all of this to people who were often inclined to be critical. First, they had to face the truth honestly before they would ever be able to explain it to anyone else. Harry and Draco had embarked on their passage together, and somewhere along the way, they had discovered that love was not just a pleasant stroll in the park, but a furnace in which two souls were forged into a single soul.


	11. A More Exotic Destination

**Title: **Congenital Magnetism  
**Author: **Ascyltus  
**Completed: **Yes  
**Summary: **At the end of his fifth year, Harry displays his effortless knack for landing himself in problematic situations. Luckily, Harry begins to develop some unusual abilities that he has inherited by virtue of being one-quarter Veela. Only Draco Malfoy seems to be immune to Harry's newly found powers.  
**Disclaimer: **This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Chapter 11: A More Exotic Destination**

Morning found Harry and Draco asleep inside a little shack that lay deep in the forest. Draco was the first to wake, daylight peeking in from where he'd left the door ajar. The soft glow of embers in the fireplace provided the only other light in the windowless hut. Harry was still sleeping soundly next to him, and Draco didn't move too quickly at first, not wanting to rouse the other boy from sleep. Draco knew that Harry had gotten up at five in the morning the day before, and Voldemort had tortured him with nightmares for a full week before that. This was probably the first sound sleep Harry had enjoyed in a long while. Draco inched himself away from the sleeping boy, taking care not to disturb him, and rose from the two sleeping bags that lay side by side on the pine-needle floor. After Draco got dressed, he was curious to see what the woodland clearing looked like in the morning. He noiselessly lifted the unhinged door open and then lowered it back down to close it.

As soon as Draco stepped outside the hut and surveyed the forest in the morning light, he was overcome by the impression of antiquity. He was certain that the forest looked exactly like this when the Romans had called the place Caledonia, beyond the frontier of their empire. But this place was even more ancient than that. This was how the world must have looked when it was very young, before human beings had ever spread across the earth. The primeval oak forest brought into being a world apart from Hogwarts, or Malfoy Manor, or any other place that was part of the modern age. The forest stretched out before Draco, offering a hiding place where no one would try to tear him apart from Harry. It could be a paradise, if only the two of them could stay. But life wasn't like that. Reluctantly, he accepted the inevitability of returning to Hogwarts in the evening and went back inside the hut.

When Harry woke, he saw something he'd never seen in his life: someone who was sitting right beside him on the bed and patiently watching him. Draco smiled when he saw Harry's eyes open and moved his hand toward Harry's cheek, but he seemed hesitant to touch Harry, as if asking permission. Harry beamed, laid hold of Draco's hand and shirt, and brought him closer. Draco ended up back down on the sleeping bag, exploring Harry's body with kisses all over again, and they spent most of the morning entwined in each other's arms before they bothered to venture outside.

The surrounding forest captured Harry's imagination as it had captured Draco's, and the two savored their remaining time together, knowing they'd have to return to Hogwarts by evening. The dense vista of emerald foliage was broken here and there by small streams, and they wandered through a kingdom of trees as each of them indulged their curiosity about the other's childhood.

"You saw what Little Whinging was like when you were there," Harry said. "Loads of suburban houses with little front yards and backyards." He gestured to the forest that lay all around them and said, "We never had anything as grand as this."

"I'll take you to the woods near Malfoy Manor," Draco said. "Not as mighty as the forest here, but when I was a child, I was always able to lose myself in those woods for most of the day. My favorite spot was a cave that was hidden away in the corner of the woods farthest from Malfoy Manor. I'm certain that I'm the only person who ever knew where it was."

"That's the cave you told me about a couple of weeks ago, when we were getting back from the bogs, isn't it?"

Draco nodded.

"And no one else knows about this cave? No one at all?"

"Absolutely no one," Draco said with complete confidence. "I went to that corner of the woods all the time, and I never saw another soul near the cave in all the years when I was growing up. I'll take you there someday. It's my own discovery."

The sun sank lower and lower in the western sky, though neither of them cared to mention it. Finally, Harry couldn't pretend anymore and knelt down near a stream they'd come to.

"We have to go back," Harry said, looking only down at the water, "but I don't want to. I don't want to end up alone."

Draco couldn't imagine what Harry meant. "Why would you ever end up alone?"

Harry stayed where he was, kneeling by the stream, watching the water flow quietly past. Then he lifted his head toward Draco with a haunted look.

"It's the only thing I've ever been afraid of. Being abandoned. I know it's not my parents' fault that Voldemort killed them, but I never had anyone. I know we have to go back to Hogwarts, but I don't want to because… I'm afraid of losing you."

Draco knelt down next to Harry, wrapped his arms around him and then held Harry's head against his chest. Through some native instinct, Draco said the only thing that could fill the aching emptiness of Harry's lonely childhood.

"I'll never abandon you, Harry. I'll always be here. No matter what happens."

The two boys were soon flying over the same hills and fields they had first crossed the day before. They cast one last yearning look back toward the great oak forest, where there were no Gryffindors or Slytherins, and the only rivalry was between the fox and the hare.

Harry and Draco arrived back at Hogwarts that evening, and they agreed to continue their Potions project in the morning since the Potions classrooms were locked on Sundays. When Harry returned to his room, he found a pretty white owl patiently waiting outside his window. Harry opened the window and the owl deposited its rolled-up parchment and flew off. He unrolled the parchment and glanced at the words at the top: "From Fleur Delacour to Harry Potter." Fleur had replied to the letter Harry had sent two days earlier. This could only help matters. If there were anyone in all the world who could answer Harry's questions about Veela, it was Fleur. He began to read the elegant handwriting.

· · · · · · My dearest Harry,

· · · · · · Beauxbatons Academy forwarded your letter to my family's home, and I can't tell  
· · · · · · you how happy I was to hear from you. Ever since I discovered that our Veela  
· · · · · · grandmothers were sisters, I've wanted to share with you what knowledge I have of  
· · · · · · the Veela race. What an exhausting year you must be having, fending off your many  
· · · · · · suitors. I certainly can understand your frustration concerning your failed attempts  
· · · · · · to control the effects of your Veela powers. I've always wondered how Veela powers  
· · · · · · would manifest themselves in a boy who was more attracted to his own sex than  
· · · · · · the opposite sex, and what kind of mayhem it would create in the male population.  
· · · · · · Well, now we know, and the frontiers of science have advanced accordingly.

· · · · · · From your reports, it sounds like the male students at Hogwarts regard you as  
· · · · · · sexual catnip. And so persistent, too, those boys in your country. I've often observed  
· · · · · · how determined Englishmen are when they're chasing after something they really  
· · · · · · want, much like those flinty English bulldogs. But I digress. And how fascinating—  
· · · · · · from a scientific perspective—that your powers affect even those boys who have  
· · · · · · never regarded other boys as desirable. My word, Harry, you even have the straight  
· · · · · · ones eating out of your hand. My hat is off to you. Toujours l'amour!

· · · · · · Now to your question about Draco. You say that the effects of your Veela powers  
· · · · · · on others disappear when Draco is present. Of course, your guess is that Draco  
· · · · · · may be your mate. And if he is your mate, you want to know how long it will take  
· · · · · · before your Veela powers no longer cause a commotion, even when Draco is not  
· · · · · · present. This is a very complex question, and it would be best to continue our  
· · · · · · conversation via Floo Network. Just contact me at the destination listed below and  
· · · · · · we can continue our conversation.

· · · · · · Yours most affectionately,

· · · · · · Fleur

Now for a fireplace connected to the Floo Network. McGonagall's office, where else? Harry grabbed his Invisibility Cloak and shortly was taking advantage of the fact that the teachers' offices were generally deserted on Sunday. Harry threw a bit of Floo powder into the fireplace in McGonagall's office, walked into the flames, stated the destination Fleur had given him, and he was presently looking into an elegant parlor. Fleur was sitting in an ornate Louis Quinze armchair reading a parchment, and she turned around when she noticed the sudden burst of green flames in the fireplace.

"Harry! I was hoping you'd reply to my letter. I've been verifying some data concerning Veela," Fleur said, pointing to a pile of books and parchments on the table next to her chair. "I know how impatient you must be to discover who your mate is."

Harry couldn't keep from blurting it out all at once. "Fleur, things have changed since I wrote to you two days ago. Draco has to be my mate. There's no way he couldn't be. Draco and I…" Harry blushed quite red, which created a striking color effect since he was surrounded by green flames, "… we're lovers now. That means he's my mate, right?"

Fleur laughed as she provided Harry with all manner of unexpected information. "Harry, I'm afraid you're still somewhat untutored regarding your Veela nature. It's all well and good that you and Draco have become lovers, and I'm sure this is what short-circuits the unwanted effects of your Veela powers when Draco is present. But the effect Draco's presence produces may or may not be temporary. It's possible Draco is your mate, but it's far from certain. Veela sometimes go through several lovers before they find their mate. Even when they do find their mate, it most often takes months before that person fully accepts the Veela as their mate, and only then do the Veela's unwanted powers of attraction stop affecting other people."

"Fleur, this is a joke, right?" One look at Fleur convinced Harry that this was no joke. "Months? This is going to take months? !"

"That's assuming the best-case scenario—that Draco is indeed your mate rather than some other lover further down the line. And as I said, when you find your mate, it _most often_ takes months for the mate to accept the Veela and the final bond to form. Occasionally, it can take as long as a year."

"A year? ! It's only the middle of September. My sixth year at Hogwarts is going to be a frigging mess." Harry lowered his head and his face was in his hands. "How can this be happening?" Harry lifted his head up. "Maybe Snape was right about me. Maybe I _am_ a walking catastrophe."

"There is a shortcut, though, but it's only available under very specific circumstances."

Harry's eyes lit up. "A shortcut?" A tantalizing glimmer of hope was presenting itself for inspection.

"Veela come into their inheritance on their sixteenth birthday," Fleur continued. "If the person who is destined to be the Veela's mate makes their affection clear _before_ the Veela's sixteenth birthday, the final bond between them will take place as soon as the Veela turns sixteen years old, with no waiting period at all. This declaration of affection and attachment initiates the bonding process that completes itself on the Veela's sixteenth birthday. The person's declaration of affection for the Veela doesn't even need to be of a sexual nature. There have been many instances of Veela and their mates who were what people call childhood sweethearts. So Harry… I have to pry. Were you and Draco close friends during your first years at Hogwarts?"

"We hated each other's guts, or at least I thought we did."

"Oh, I see. Well, that eliminates the shortcut method."

"Wait." Harry was grasping at straws. "Draco really liked me from the beginning, from our first year at Hogwarts. I know he did because he finally told me yesterday."

"That really doesn't help much, Harry. Draco would have to have told you at the time."

"But Draco did something at the end of first year." Harry wouldn't give up on this last shred of hope. "He took something out of my suitcase, a school workbook. He told me he'd wanted a keepsake, something to remind him of me. Draco's father caught him with my workbook and threw it away… but still, Draco liked me so much that he actually wanted something of mine to keep as a memory. That has to count for something, doesn't it?"

"Erm… no, I'm sorry to say that doesn't count for anything. I'm familiar with different historical cases of Veela inheritance. In order to bond instantly when the Veela turns sixteen, it's quite necessary for the Veela's mate to actually let the Veela know of their feelings before the Veela's sixteenth birthday. Wait…" Fleur paused for a moment, lost in thought. "I remember reading about one unusual case in which a female Veela knew the boy who would become her mate, but they became geographically separated. When she was fourteen years old and the boy was fifteen, her family was forced to relocate for two years. The girl's parents left their house vacant and neglected to tell anyone the location of their temporary residence. The boy was frantic during the girl's two-year absence and sent owls to her original home. Although he hadn't made his true feelings known before, he finally told the girl of his love for her in his letters. A sympathetic neighbor kept the owled messages, hoping the girl and her family would return. By the time the girl and her family returned, she had already turned sixteen and had come into her Veela inheritance. The neighbor gave the girl all of the boy's messages, and the final bond between the two was instantly formed. But that was because the boy had written the letters before the girl's sixteenth birthday. Draco didn't write you any letters during your first years at Hogwarts, did he?"

"No," Harry said, defeated, "definitely not."

"Then, Harry, I'm afraid you're going to have to find your mate the hard way. It would be wonderful if Draco really is your mate, but it's still too early to tell. You'll just have to be patient."

* º * º *

The following morning, Harry and Draco were the first students in any of the Potions classrooms in the Hogwarts dungeons, having arrived at their separate Potions classroom long before Snape's earliest class. They examined the parchment that listed the ingredients they had assembled, finally satisfied that they had everything necessary for their project. Harry had temporarily kept the ingredients in his private room on the sixth floor, but they were now securely locked in the classroom's storage cabinet. This was the very same storage cabinet, Harry recalled, on top of which a lust-crazed Blaise Zabini had cornered him, intent on carrying out his amorous designs. Such were the very special memories that this Potions classroom would always hold for Harry.

Draco opened his backpack and took out the wooden board they had been using to communicate with the spirits from the Eastern Shore Network.

"Go ahead, Harry," Draco said as he laid the board on the table and placed a blank parchment on top of it. "You do the honors."

· · · · · · · · · This is Harry. Draco and I are trying to communicate with the Eastern Shore Network. We have all the ingredients necessary for our Potions project. We need instructions on how to prepare the potion.

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • Harry, it's so good to hear that you and Mr. Malfoy were successful in assembling your ingredients. Before we continue, we have an inquiry to make, which we'd like each of you to answer individually. Please answer honestly. Our magical abilities extend considerably beyond retrieving long-lost objects, although you seemed quite impressed when we performed that simple trick for you. • • •

Harry and Draco exchanged a look, and Draco said, "I wouldn't be surprised if they can tell when we're lying." More writing appeared on the parchment.

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • And now our question. Do you think you would have achieved as much success in this venture with the cooperation of some other student, that is to say, working with some other student rather than with each other? If not, in what way has each of you furthered the other's success more than another student might have? Mr. Malfoy, you may answer first. • • •

Draco didn't even focus on the parchment in front of him. He seemed to be looking at something in the distance as he wrote down three short sentences.

· · · · · · · · · Harry is my friend and I love him. I would do anything to help him. That's all I have to say.

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • Thank you, Mr. Malfoy. And your answer, Harry? • • •

Harry's hand trembled for a second, but then was still. He began to write.

· · · · · · · · · At first, I thought that whatever we tried to do succeeded so easily because Draco was brilliant at Potions. Actually, not just brilliant at Potions. Brilliant at love too. After a while, I thought everything was possible because I was discovering what was in my soul for the first time. Then I realized I was discovering what was in Draco's soul, not my own. Now I'm not sure which it is because I can't tell the difference between my own soul and Draco's anymore. · · · · · · · · ·

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • You raise an interesting point, Harry. The spirits in our association have been gathering data for thousands of years, and we have occasionally run across wizards who have attempted to alter the boundaries of the soul. Some have used extreme forms of evil and violence to split the soul, while others have embarked on experiments like the process you describe. It's the consensus here at the Eastern Shore Network that experiments such as yours generate more powerful results. In any case, we're always fascinated with the results of any such soul-altering experiments. That's how the frontiers of science expand.

We have now settled on a potion recipe that should suit your needs. However, we ourselves don't have access to the recipe; we only know the location where you can obtain it. You'll need to travel to London. You'll also need to travel into the past a bit, since this particular potion recipe isn't available in your current time frame. You did mention before, Harry, that you have access to a time travel device, did you not? • • •

· · · · · · · · · Yes, the Time-Turner. That's the pendant I told you about.

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • Excellent. When you and Mr. Malfoy are ready to leave for your destination, you'll place your Time-Turner on the same parchment we're using to communicate with each other, and we'll program your device to transport you four time units into the past. The English word for the time unit is

Harry and Draco waited while the message from Eastern Shore seemed to stall in mid-sentence. More text now appeared on the parchment.

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • We're trying to improve our translation abilities at the moment. As you already know, our own language is Proto-Semitic, and we have quite a few languages to cope with since we correspond with wizards from everywhere. Our translations for time units are still being updated. Give us a moment, won't you? • • •

After a long pause, the message from Eastern Shore continued.

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • The English word for the time unit is "week." When you place your Time-Turner on this parchment, we'll program it to transport you in both time and space: to London, four weeks into the past. The only restriction is that you are not allowed to take any magical objects with you other than the Time-Turner. That means no wands and no brooms. Now then, Harry, in our previous conversation, we asked you to give us the names of two emergency contacts, and you named Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, and told us we could send any packages to you care of Ron Weasley, if you weren't available.

You should also inform Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger that they can follow you and Mr. Malfoy to your destination time and place, if they wish, using a guest account with less privileges. A guest account simply means that we at Eastern Shore Network will let Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger know beforehand how long they will be allowed to visit your destination time and place. If they choose to use their guest accounts, they will return to their current time and place automatically at the end of the specified time period, although they will arrive later, depending on how much time they spend in the past. You and Mr. Malfoy, on the other hand, will be able to return to your current time and place whenever you choose, since the two of you will have the Time-Turner, and you will also arrive later, depending on how much time you spend in the past. Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger, like the two of you, will not be able to take any magical objects, such as wands and brooms.

One last detail. While you are in your destination time and place, you and Mr. Malfoy will be the only genuine time travelers, and the two of you will have access to your current memories. Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger, if they use their guest accounts to follow you, will not be real time travelers, but will only be experiencing their existences as of four weeks ago and will only have access to their memories as of four weeks ago, not their current memories. However, all four of you will retain your memories of what happens to you in the past upon your return to your current time frame. We'll give you some time, Harry, to give Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger their instructions. Contact us when you and Mr. Malfoy are ready to travel in time and space. Until later. • • •

The writing disappeared and Harry was left staring at the blank parchment. He felt Draco pressing against his back, wrapping his arms around Harry.

"Draco? When the spirits asked you about me… you meant what you wrote?"

"I'll always love you." Draco turned Harry around in his arms and gave him a very deep kiss. "All right, angel eyes, ready to go to London with me?"

"I'll go anywhere with you." Harry couldn't resist stealing another kiss. "Meet me up in my room in an hour. I have to let Hermione know what's going on. And wear your school robes. We might have to make it clear that we go to Hogwarts when we're in London." Harry's brows knitted together. "I think I'll only tell Hermione about using the Time-Turner. She's usually more sensible than Ron in situations like this."

"I think it's safe to say that anyone is more sensible than Weasley in situations like this."

Harry left the Potions classroom laughing. Draco's remark about Ron was biting but accurate. It was still before breakfast, and Harry was hoping he could catch Hermione before she left for the Great Hall. When Harry arrived at the Gryffindor common room, there was a small gaggle of students near the Fat Lady's portrait. Harry peeked from around a corner and caught Hermione's eye, and she was at Harry's side in an adjacent hall in an instant.

"Harry, you've been gone all weekend. What on earth were you up to? Were you working on that Potions project with Malfoy?"

Harry led Hermione into a nearby empty classroom. "There's too much to talk about here in the corridor." Once inside, Harry closed the door and gestured toward a seat. "Hermione, you should sit down for all of this."

"That sounds ever so dramatic," Hermione said, taking a seat at one of the front-row desks.

Harry remained standing, leaning against the teacher's desk. He took a deep breath and looked Hermione straight in the eye. "Draco and I are lovers."

Hermione's hand flew to her mouth. Her hand lay frozen against her mouth for a moment before she could bring herself to speak.

"Merlin save us," she whispered.

"Listen to me, 'Mione. Draco loves me. He—loves—me. I know it as surely as I've ever known anything in my life."

"There's no stopping it then." Hermione slumped a bit in her seat, giving herself a comfortable amount of time to absorb this novel piece of information. "It was meant to be. There's something between the two of you. I'd be a hypocrite if I said that I didn't see it. It's just so surprising. Everything is pitted against the two of you. Malfoy's family, the Slytherins, the Gryffindors… Whatever it is that binds the two of you to each other, it's so strong that it crosses the bounds of family, society… everything." Hermione shook her head weakly. "Does this mean Draco is your mate? I mean, does this solve all the problems with your Veela powers?"

"I thought so, but I wrote to Fleur Delacour because she knows more about Veela than anyone I know, and she wrote back to me. Fleur isn't so sure Draco is my mate. She told me that most often it takes months for a Veela and their mate to form a final bond, and that I just have to be patient. Which means this Potions project is still the best hope for controlling my Veela powers. So this morning, Draco and I got in touch with the spirits from the Eastern Shore Network."

"You mean that weird spirit association in the Middle East that you told Ron about in the Room of Requirement?"

"Right. They've helped us get all the potion ingredients together, but now they're sending us to some location in London to get the potion recipe." Harry reached into his pocket and pulled out McGonagall's Time-Turner. "And I have to use the Time-Turner because the potion recipe is only available four weeks in the past."

"Harry! You're not even supposed to be using the Time-Turner."

"I know, but I'm only using it for today, just this once, then I'll put it back in Professor McGonagall's office."

"And how do they send you to London?"

"Draco and I are going to let the Eastern Shore spirits transport us from my room on the sixth floor. We have a wooden board we've been using to communicate with the Eastern Shore Network. You just put a piece of parchment on it and write down your question or request. All we have to do is hold the Time-Turner on the parchment, and they'll use the Time-Turner and the communication board to transport us to the correct destination and time frame. Whenever we're ready, we can return to the present time frame, but we'll arrive later, depending on how much time we spend in the past." Harry smiled and adopted a soothing tone. "I don't think it'll take more than half a day to find the potion recipe, but in case it takes more time… I told the spirits at Eastern Shore that you and Ron are my emergency contacts. They told me you and Ron could follow us and go to the same destination in London, four weeks in the past—only if you need to, that is—you know, if there's some kind of emergency."

"How would we do that?"

"I'll leave the wooden board in my room, so it'll be there if you or Ron need to follow us to London. I've already shown Ron how the communication board works, when we were in the Room of Requirement. I really don't think you'll have to use it, though. I think we'll be able to find the potion recipe and get back by the end of the day. But if you need to find us, just write your request on the parchment, and the Eastern Shore spirits will tell you what you have to do. I'll leave my room unlocked."

"Look, Harry." Hermione played nervously with her hair. "This whole thing sounds so dodgy. It's not enough for Ron and me to be the only ones who know where you are. We have to tell Dumbledore."

Harry groaned. "Draco and I have made it all the way through this Potions project without telling Dumbledore or the other teachers about the Eastern Shore Network. Why now?"

"Because you've been safe and sound here at Hogwarts, but now you're going to let these spirits send you to London, and you're going to use time travel on top of everything else. What is it… four weeks into the past?"

Harry nodded.

"Nothing you and Draco have done up until now has been this risky. Dumbledore should know where you are, just in case something unexpected happens."

A look of uncertainty crossed Harry's face. "Wait an hour before you tell Dumbledore, OK? I just want to make sure Draco and I have already left before Dumbledore finds out. And wait an hour before you tell Ron. You know how worried he gets."

"Ron will be fine with it," Hermione said, smiling. She rose from her seat and gave Harry a sound hug. "I just hope everything in London happens according to plan. Can you and Draco at least bring your wands and brooms with you?"

Harry shook his head. "The Eastern Shore spirits told us we couldn't bring any magical objects except the Time-Turner."

Hermione made an exasperated noise. "Do you at least have any Muggle money?"

"Yeah, I have a little in my room."

"Bring it with you. You never know. You might need Muggle money for something. You might need to…" she waved her arms weakly, "… I don't know, call your uncle and aunt. Just make sure to bring Muggle money with you… and be careful."

Hermione gave Harry one last fierce hug, then said, "You know, it's really unnerving to be right next to you. I'm surrounded by all this glitter stuff bouncing off you in all directions." She stood at the door of the classroom and watched him disappear down the corridor.

Minutes later, Harry arrived at his room on the sixth floor. Draco was waiting outside the door wearing his school robes and said, "All set?"

"Yeah," Harry said. "It's show time."

Inside Harry's room, Draco pulled out the communication board, put a piece of parchment on top and wrote down a statement of his intentions while Harry changed into his school robes.

· · · · · · · · · This is Draco Malfoy. Harry and I are ready to leave for London.

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • Fine. We will transport you and Harry to two different locations in London. Mr. Malfoy, your location will be of the most use in finding the potion recipe, but Harry will find instructions at his location about how to find you, and Harry will remain in possession of your time-travel device. If this is clear, place your time-travel device on the parchment and then place your hands on the device. • • •

Draco shrugged. "Who's going to argue? They're in charge."

Harry placed the Time-Turner on the parchment and then let go of it. Harry and Draco simultaneously moved their hands close to the Time-Turner. The instant Harry and Draco placed their hands on the Time-Turner, they were gone.

* º * º *

Hermione was seated in front of the Headmaster's desk, shifting uncomfortably in her chair. Explaining Harry and Draco's whereabouts involved a tangled narrative.

"London?" Dumbledore wasn't sure he'd heard correctly. "What would Harry and Draco be doing in London?"

Hermione made a timid squeak, and her hands flopped about in her lap. "They should have told you before… Ron and I should have told you, but Harry didn't want any of the faculty to know about it, at least for a little while. He made Ron and I promise we wouldn't tell anyone." Hermione's eyes darted up at Dumbledore, and she decided to plow through the worst of it right away. "Harry and Malfoy have been getting outside help in their Potions project."

"From another student?"

"No," Hermione's answered, her voice an octave above normal. She forced her voice to lower back down to a normal pitch. "They've been getting help from an association of spirits—disembodied spirits from somewhere around Lebanon."

Dumbledore interrupted. "In the Middle East?"

"Yes, that's right, Professor Dumbledore. They lived their earthly existence a few thousand years before the Roman Empire. They're actually quite savvy at Potions. At any rate, they helped Harry and Malfoy assemble all the ingredients for their Potions project, and they just sent Harry and Malfoy to London to find the potion recipe they'll have to use. The errand in London actually requires a bit of time travel… four weeks into the past. Harry borrowed Professor McGonagall's Time-Turner, just for today."

Dumbledore's eyes widened. "Time travel?" He heaved a long sigh. "So at this moment, Harry and Draco are in London, four weeks in the past, which would be the middle of August. And what method of transport did these spirits use?"

"Harry and Draco have been using a wooden board to communicate with these spirits. I don't know what magical properties this board has, but you put a piece of parchment on it and write down your questions or requests. Harry's already shown Ron how to use the communication board. I think Harry and Malfoy were transported when they held the Time-Turner down on the parchment. Harry told us he chose Ron and me as his emergency contacts, so if we need to, we can use this communication board to follow him to London. Do you think I should get the wooden board from Harry's room and bring it here for you to look at?"

"No, no, don't do that," the Headmaster said. "There is no telling what dangerous properties a magical object such as that might have. Moving it might activate some unexpected charm. Just leave this object where it is."

"Hermione"—Dumbledore rose from his desk now—"I must ask you to meet Professor Snape and me in Harry's private room on the sixth floor one hour from now. I need to get Professor Snape's recommendations before we proceed. Oh, Hermione, since Harry seems to have told Ron about using this communication device, bring Ron along with you when you meet with us."

Hermione had gotten out of her seat. "We won't be late, I promise. I just have to explain everything to Ron, but he'll take all of this in stride. I know he'll be nothing but sensible and helpful."

* º * º *

Hermione and Ron had no classes until later in the morning and dropped into the Gryffindor common room for a nice quiet chat. It was fortunate that most students were either in classes or corridors, and nowhere near the Gryffindor common room.

"What? ! Harry's using the Time-Turner to go to London four weeks in the past… with that SNEAKY FERRET? !" Ron's head looked like it was about to explode.

"Ron, calm down."

"Calm down?" Ron was pacing furiously back and forth, from one end of the common room to the other. "You're telling me that Malfoy is alone with Harry somewhere in London—four weeks in the past, no less—and there are no witnesses anywhere in sight to keep a watchful eye on that piece of scum? Who knows what nasty plot Malfoy might be cooking up? He might be getting ready to hand Harry over to You-Know-Who right now."

"You know as well as I do that You-Know-Who has been threatening both of Malfoy's parents. I believe Professor Dumbledore when he says that Malfoy has switched sides."

"Well, I don't. Who's to say he isn't trying to get in good with You-Know-Who. He's a scheming ferret, and he might sell Harry down the river just the same as he'd sell his parents down the river."

"Ron, stop pacing back and forth across the room like that. You're like a lion in a cage."

Ron ignored Hermione and continued pacing.

Hermione shook head. "You know, Malfoy does the exact same thing as you're doing now."

Ron stopped in his tracks. "What exact same thing?"

"Whenever he's all agitated about something, he paces from one end of the room to the other, like a lion in a cage, just like you're doing now. I've seen Malfoy do that loads of times."

"That ferret and I have nothing in common," Ron said, making sure not to pace back and forth.

"Ron"—Hermione's patience was exhausted—"Harry and Malfoy are lovers."

"They're what?" Ron sputtered for a bit. This exciting new piece of information took him by surprise, but he recovered quickly. "So, Malfoy's seduced Harry, making it all the easier to betray him and hand him over to You-Know-Who. It figures that Malfoy would sink that low."

"Then why didn't Malfoy object when Harry named us as his emergency contacts?"

"His what?"

"If Harry's not back by this evening, we have the right to follow Harry to his destination to find him."

Ron had a shrewd look on his face. "And how does that work?"

"Harry told me there's this wooden board he uses to communicate with the Eastern Shore Network. He left it in his room, and his room is unlocked. He said he showed you how to use it once."

"When we went to the Room of Requirement. Yeah, he showed me how to use it. So I just ask these spirits, and they'll send me where they sent Harry and Malfoy?"

"Yes. The only restriction is that you can't take any magical objects like wands or brooms with you. But this is for an _emergency,_ Ron. There's no emergency here."

"No magical objects?" Ron was already heading toward the boys' dormitory. "But I can get a knife from the kitchen or one of the greenhouses, can't I?"

"A knife? ! Ron, are you crazy?"

"I'll show that bloody ferret an emergency," Ron shouted, running up the stairs. "If he thinks he's going to hurt Harry, I'll tear him apart and bury the pieces in different locations."

Hermione considered running upstairs after Ron and bursting into the boys' dormitory, even though it really wasn't good form for a girl to be up there for any reason. She didn't have long to think about this, though, because Ron was now dashing back down the staircase, running past Hermione and out the door. Ron took advantage of the fact that he had his wand and Hermione didn't, and cast a locking charm on the door of the common room. It was a simple matter for Hermione to run up to the girls' dormitory, find her wand, run back downstairs and cast the countercharm to unlock the door. In doing so, however, she lost precious minutes. She now stood just outside the entrance of the common room and looked down the corridor, first in one direction, then in the other, but Ron was nowhere in sight. There was no telling whether he was headed to the Hogwarts kitchen, the greenhouses or Harry's room on the sixth floor. There was no time to think. Not knowing what else to do, she ran in blind desperation toward the Hogwarts kitchen since it was closer than the greenhouses. This decision resulted in Hermione losing even more time since she had to go from the seventh floor to the basement, only to find out that no one had seen a trace of Ron—not students, not house-elves, no one. She had now given Ron the advantage of an enormous head start, and she arrived at Harry's sixth-floor room out of breath to be greeted by Dean Thomas, who was standing just outside the open door of Harry's room.

"Hermione, do you have any notion where Ron ran off to?"

"I was about to ask you the same thing, but why are you looking for him?"

"I was just up in the dorm room because I'd forgotten one of the books for my next class, and Ron comes running up into the dorm like the house is on fire. He started emptying out one of his drawers and stuffing money in his pocket. It looked like Muggle money. Then he runs over to me and asks to borrow my switchblade."

"Switchblade? !" Hermione willed herself to calm down. "Isn't that a Muggle knife that flips out of its case when you press a button?"

"Yeah. I've always had one because I think they're ingenious. Very useful devices. Anyway, Ron asked to borrow it because he wanted to use it to test a charm for chopping Potions ingredients."

"Listen, Dean"—Hermione was breathing more evenly now—"just go back downstairs. I'll be able to find Ron with no problem. Ron and I will catch up with you later today."

"You're sure everything's all right?"

"Absolutely," Hermione lied, and she watched Dean walk away until he turned the corner of the corridor.

Hermione inched the door open and took her first cautious peek inside Harry's room. She saw it at once on the writing desk: a rectangular board with a piece of parchment on top—and the parchment was glowing in a most peculiar fashion, a soft white light emanating from it. She crept slowly toward the writing desk, as if approaching a dangerous animal, and when she was standing a foot in front of the desk, she gasped at the words written on the parchment:

Most recent time/space traveler: Ron Weasley (Guest Account only)  
Estimated duration of visit: 1 day

Hermione took a quill from Harry's desk and gingerly wrote down her first question.

· · · · · · · · · My name is Hermione Granger, and I would like to know if Ron Weasley has been transported to London, and also how you are even able to verify the identity of the person who is writing a request.

Half expecting nothing at all to happen, Hermione was startled by the promptness of the reply.

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • Miss Granger, how delightful to make your acquaintance. Harry named you and Mr. Weasley as his two emergency contacts, with guest privileges, and Mr. Weasley did indeed request to be transported to Harry and Mr. Malfoy's destination in London. At Eastern Shore Network, we can identify the unique aura associated with any individual wizard or witch who is communicating with us. We simply send the molecular aura description to the international database, and the technicians who administer the database verify the person's identity. When our spirit association was founded, several thousand years ago, the international database was in Egypt. The database has since changed locations, and the records are now kept in Geneva, Switzerland. Yes, we've verified your identity, Miss Granger, and you have the same guest privileges as Mr. Weasley. How can we assist you today? • • •

· · · · · · · · · I would like to be transported to the location in London where you sent Harry, Malfoy and Ron. I believe that will also send me four weeks into the past, is that correct?

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • We will send you to the destination in London, but please be advised that when you use a guest account, your privileges are more restricted than those of Harry and Mr. Malfoy. For example, you will not be able to access your current memories, only your memories as of four time units ago. That means that if you travel four time units into the past

The writing stalled momentarily.

· · · · · · · · · Sorry for the delay. The translation for that time unit is "week". If you travel four weeks into the past, you won't remember anything that has happened during the past four weeks while you are visiting your destination. However, you'll recall everything that happens to you in the past when you return to the present. And we're afraid we must prohibit taking along any magical objects, such as wands or brooms. We will suggest a duration for your visit. Will one day, the same duration as Mr. Weasley's visit, suit your purposes? • • •

Hermione could scarcely believe she was negotiating this.

· · · · · · · · · One day will be fine. What do I do?

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • If you place your hand on the parchment, you will be transported instantly. • • •

Hermione searched in her pockets, reassuring herself that she had grabbed some Muggle money before she left the Gryffindor common room. Thanks to her Muggle upbringing, she even had the foresight to take a plastic banking card with her, in case she needed to use a Muggle automatic banking machine to get more money. Hermione reached her hand forward. The Eastern Shore spirits were true to their word, and Hermione vanished the moment her hand touched the parchment.

Shortly after Hermione's departure, Dumbledore and Snape were making their way down the sixth-floor corridor toward Harry's room.

"It is my experience, Albus," Snape said, his voice dangerously low, "that some things are simply too strange to be fabricated. I have to conclude that Miss Granger's story is so bizarre that she couldn't possibly have made it up."

Dumbledore and Snape were suspicious as soon as they saw the door to Harry's room ajar rather than closed. When they spotted the wooden communication board on Harry's writing desk, they were even more startled by the alternating color of the piece of parchment lying on top of it. The parchment was surrounded by flashing light, and the light alternated between neon green and neon red. As they approached the parchment, they saw the following message:

Most recent time/space traveler: Hermione Granger (Guest Account only)  
Estimated duration of visit: 1 day  
… … … … … … … … … …

ALERT: Translation Error  
Please contact our Help Desk

Dumbledore picked up the quill Hermione had used and submitted his concerns:

· · · · · · · · · I have three questions. First, with whom am I communicating? Second, have Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy all been transported to London, four weeks into the past? And finally, what is the nature of the translation error to which you are alerting me?

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • You have contacted the Eastern Shore Network, Phoenician Network Subgroup. We've verified your molecular aura information through the international database. Albus Dumbledore, we presume? Yes, the four people you mention have all requested to be transported to London. The duration of Mr. Weasley's and Miss Granger's visits will be one day. Harry and Mr. Malfoy may stay as long as they need to; that is their decision to make. As we explained to Harry and Mr. Malfoy, we're still updating our translations for time units. Our spirit association is thousands of years old, and our own language is Proto-Semitic. We receive queries and requests from wizards around the world, and we are truly doing our utmost to maintain accurate translations, but occasionally some errors fall through the cracks. We sent Harry and Mr. Malfoy to London during the time frame in which they would be able to find the potion recipe they're looking for. That time frame is four time units in the past, but the correct translation for that time unit is not "week" but "century". • • •

Dumbledore and Snape exchanged horrified looks. Dumbledore felt compelled to verify the extent of the error.

· · · · · · · · · Four hundred years in the past?

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • To be exact, four hundred years and four weeks in the past. We had already programmed their time-travel device for four weeks. When we saw the translation error, we just added the extra four hundred years. Their destination is London in the month of August—four hundred years ago, of course. • • •

Dumbledore wrote down the first thought that occurred to him.

· · · · · · · · · Will they know each other?

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • As we explained to all of them, only Harry and Mr. Malfoy will be genuine time travelers, and they will have access to their current memories; they will know everything about Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger from the present time frame, but nothing about them from the sixteenth century. Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger, who are using guest accounts, will be in the reverse situation. They will not be genuine time travelers like Harry and Mr. Malfoy, but will simply be experiencing an alternate life four hundred years ago. They will have access to their memories from their sixteenth-century existence, but they will know nothing of the present time frame. Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger may be acquainted with Harry and Mr. Malfoy four hundred years ago, but their relationships may or may not be the same. In their existences four hundred years ago, the four of them may have grown up under different circumstances. All four of your students will remember what happens to them in the sixteenth century upon their return to the twentieth century. We really thought we were providing your students with an accurate translation when we told them what their destination time frame would be. Oops. • • •

"Oops?" Snape was quietly fuming. "The only thing these blundering spirits have to say is oops? ! What kind of nutcases are we dealing with?"

Dumbledore tried to maintain a reasonable tone in his questions, but his irritation was beginning to show.

· · · · · · · · · Are you actually telling me that four of my students have been transported to London in the year 1596?

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • We do our best, but we're not perfect. We certainly apologize for any inconvenience. • • •

* º * º *

The moment Draco touched the Time-Turner, he found himself in the middle of a street, although the term "street" was stretching the concept somewhat. There was no pavement of any kind. The "street" essentially consisted of mud. Draco, expecting to be transported to London, found nothing at all familiar—wizard, Muggle or otherwise. There were no Muggle automobiles, no artificial lights, no electrical apparatus, none of the modern Muggle architecture Draco was familiar with, nothing. The place looked positively… medieval. The muddy street had only horses and people, and the people were speaking English, but an archaic form of English. Fortunately for him, Draco's parents had made sure that he was at least familiar with one Muggle author during his childhood—Shakespeare, the Bard. The Shakespearean English these people spoke was strange, but at least intelligible.

Draco saw that he was standing in front of a very grand looking town house. Someone grabbed him by the arm. "Master Draco Malfoy! The master of our house is waiting for you." The man handed Draco a parchment, what looked like an invitation to a party. Somewhere near the top of the page, Draco saw the words "By the grace of God, Elizabeth R."

Draco feebly pointed to the name. Feeling very disoriented, he asked the man next to him the only thing he could manage to think of. "Does this refer to Queen Elizabeth the Second?"

The man leading Draco to the entrance of the townhouse laughed. "There has ever been only one prince of this realm named Elizabeth, the daughter of Good King Hal."

Draco's singular thought was _shit._ The situation was looking worse and worse. The Eastern Shore loonies had indeed transported Draco to a location in London—sixteenth-century London. Draco was now inside the townhouse, although it was practically a palace. It would have put Malfoy Manor to shame. Draco noticed guards inside who were armed with spears. The man at his side was saying, "I am newly employed in this household, and I am to attend to you, Master Draco."

"And who is the master of your house," Draco asked.

"You should well know who it is. One of the richest and most powerful in England, though he be only sixteen years of age. Master Ronald Weasley."

Draco's eyes were on the armed guards all around him, and he considered the ghastly possibilities.

No, please, dear God, no, Draco thought. Weasley used his stupid "guest account" and followed us here. Will Weasley have me tortured to death?

Draco steeled himself for whatever horrible fate awaited him.

"Everyone is in such good spirits here," the servant continued. "Master Ronald has promised to wed Hermione Granger. They will not wed until next year since they are but sixteen years of age, but their betrothal is still cause for celebration."

Weasley's getting married to Granger, Draco thought. Some things never change.

Draco now saw the servant beside him begin to smile and back away. Suddenly, Draco felt one strong arm wrapping around him from behind and a hand covering his eyes, and he felt a loving kiss on his left cheek, then on his right. Then he heard words whispered in his ear: "Welcome back, Draco. I've missed you bitterly. I remember all those times last year when I had you in bed with me. And I remember that cute little birthmark at the top of your left thigh."

Wait. No one knew about that birthmark because it was so well hidden, at the very top of Draco's inner thigh. There is no way anyone could have spotted it, even when he was showering in the Quidditch locker room. Draco was only in bed once with his erstwhile Ravenclaw girlfriend, and it was too dark for her to have seen it. Harry wouldn't even have noticed the birthmark during their single sojourn in the forest near Hogwarts—the two of them were far too busy making epic love to each other. This was insane. Draco was in sixteenth-century London, the entire world had gone mad and the first person he ran across knew him _very_ intimately.

The hand fell away from Draco's eyes, and he looked down at the hard muscles of the two arms that encircled him. The boy behind Draco turned him around and planted the most affectionate kiss imaginable on Draco's forehead. The eyes that stared straight at Draco were blue—the perfect light blue color of the sky when it's sunlit and cloudless—and Draco froze, stunned beyond words, and faced the warm smile and loving eyes of Ron Weasley.


	12. Parcel Delivery

**Title: **Congenital Magnetism  
**Author: **Ascyltus  
**Completed: **Yes  
**Summary: **At the end of his fifth year, Harry displays his effortless knack for landing himself in problematic situations. Luckily, Harry begins to develop some unusual abilities that he has inherited by virtue of being one-quarter Veela. Only Draco Malfoy seems to be immune to Harry's newly found powers.  
**Disclaimer: **This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Chapter 12: Parcel Delivery**

Draco was still trying to overcome the shock of being unexpectedly transported to the sixteenth century when he felt someone's arm wrapping around him from behind, a hand playfully covering his eyes, someone kissing him on both cheeks and then softly whispering the words "Welcome back, Draco. I've missed you bitterly." Draco felt himself being turned around, kissed on the forehead and confronted by… Ron Weasley! No, this couldn't be happening. It wasn't just wrong. It was every different shade of wrong.

True to form, Draco thought, the Weasel and Granger have outdone themselves in the pursuit of annoying the hell out of me. They actually had the nerve to use their stupid "guest accounts" and follow Harry and I here. So, Draco wondered, where is "here"?

Draco took stock of this world-gone-berserk. The Weasley family was filthy rich, Ron had just promised to marry Hermione (thank the Gods for small favors) and the servant had mentioned something about Elizabeth the First being the current monarch. Draco could only conclude that this was some past existence in sixteenth-century England—with horrifically different life histories for all parties concerned. He took note of the armed guards posted on each side of the corridor, guards who clearly took their orders from the master of the house, Ron Weasley. According to the blasted rules that the Eastern Shore Network had imposed, Draco had arrived here with neither wand nor broom, and he was clearly at Ron's mercy.

Ron was presently stroking Draco's cheek and brushing a stray lock of hair from his eyes.

Draco's mind fumbled about for a reason—any reason—that could possibly explain the current monstrous situation. The spirits from the Eastern Shore Network were to blame for all of this, of course. As Draco remembered, they were having trouble translating the phrase "four time units." What kind of blithering idiots would confuse "week" with "century"? Had this been the most careless of mistakes? Even if it had, who could explain the thoroughly objectionable personal relationships? What had Ron just said to him? "I remember all those times last year when I had you in bed with me." Draco was unable to accept the obvious implication at first. The proposition was appalling. Draco found it impossible to imagine how he could have ended up in bed with Ron—in any century whatsoever. And what was that other clever remark Ron made? "I remember that cute little birthmark at the top of your left thigh."

Charming, Draco thought. The Weasel even knows the location of a birthmark at the top of my inner thigh. This is an outrage of the first order.

Apart from his own alarm at the notion of a past liaison with Ron, a further mystery confronted Draco. Why in the nine hells would Ron ever have consented to be lovers with Draco, for even the shortest time? The nature of Ron's travel into the past began to dawn on Draco. Ron had no memory at all of his real life in the twentieth century. This had to be one of the restrictions the Eastern Shore Network had placed on his "guest account." Didn't the Eastern Shore spirits have something to say about that in a previous communication session? Their reply to one of Harry's questions drifted back into Draco's mind:

"One last detail. While you are in your destination time and place, you and Mr. Malfoy will be the only genuine time travelers, and the two of you will have access to your current memories. Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger, if they use their guest accounts to follow you, will not be real time travelers, but will only be experiencing their existences as of four weeks ago and will only have access to their memories as of four weeks ago, not their current memories. However, all four of you will retain your memories of what happens to you in the past upon your return to your current time frame."

What these confused spirits meant was that Ron and Hermione would only have access to their memories from four _centuries_ ago. They were not really traveling in time; they were only reliving a previous existence. The circumstances of their past lives in the sixteenth century must have been drastically different for Draco and Ron to have been lovers at one point, but there it was and there was no denying it.

Why, oh why, Draco thought, couldn't the Weasel leave well enough alone while Harry and I spend one single day in the past to get the potion recipe?

Draco searched his knowledge of literature, both wizard and Muggle, for some literary genre that would include the scenario Eastern Shore had inflicted. Gothic horror story? No, not frightening enough. Black comedy? Not perverse enough. The answer came to him. This was a very bad romance. It was a bad romance brought to hideous life—script, staging and costumes by Eastern Shore Network—and Draco was trapped in this very bad romance, at least temporarily.

A voice rose from the depths of Draco's soul and screamed silently inside his head: "Kill the scriptwriter!" Then he realized that the Eastern Shore scriptwriter was a disembodied spirit, so it wouldn't make a difference in any case. These nutjob spirits were responsible for perpetrating a romantic… atrocity. Yes, atrocity was the only word fit to describe the way Ron was gently brushing his overly long nose against Draco's nose. Draco looked at Ron's features more carefully, and the voice running through his mind offered a new appraisal of Ron's nose:

"Did I think Weasley's nose was too long? Not really, I suppose. His nose is long, but straight as a ruler. It reminds me of the profile of a Roman emperor on an ancient coin—oh, my flipping, freaking God! What in the hell am I saying? ! I must be going mad."

Draco pulled himself together and forced himself to consider the unthinkable.

The bloody Weasel and I, Draco thought, had been lo… lov…

Draco's mind promptly aborted the vivid details that were now forming themselves into rather explicit thoughts. He forced his musings to take a different direction. He had to make some attempt to be sensible, even though Ron still held him close in his arms.

"You've just gotten engaged to be married," Draco said. "That sounds grand. Really it does. A capital idea. I couldn't think of a finer outcome if I had stayed awake for three days running thinking about it."

"When I wrote to you," Ron said, "the only thing I could think to do was tell you straight out." Ron leaned his head in until his forehead was touching Draco's. "You must have known for some time now that I've fallen for Hermione. But the letter you wrote in reply, Draco. I'd never imagined what an understanding friend I had in you. I thought you might be resentful or even angry about me marrying Hermione."

"No, not in the least," Draco answered with perfect honesty. "If marrying her makes you happy, by all means, forge ahead."

"And the last thing I was expecting to read in that letter was that you'd fallen in love yourself. Draco, there's nothing I want more than to know that you've found happiness. His name is Harry, you said. One of the students at Hogwarts. Harry Prewett, is it?"

It took a moment for Draco to make any sense out of what Ron was saying. "Potter. His name is Harry Potter. You've never heard that name before?"

"That's right. Harry Potter. No, I'd never heard the name until you mentioned it in your letter."

Ron didn't even know who Harry was, had never even heard his name before. But when Draco reflected on this for a moment, it made a certain sense. In the sixteenth century, Voldemort didn't exist. The First Wizarding War of the twentieth century would not occur until four hundred years later. No Voldemort, no Boy Who Lived. Harry's existence here in the sixteenth century must have been much more anonymous than his life as the boy who vanquished Voldemort at the age of one. Maybe Harry went to Hogwarts. Who knows? But Ron certainly didn't know him. And Ron and Draco were the best of friends—and at one point, more than friends.

"Draco, you know everything about me," Ron was saying. "Remember when we were five years old? That was the first time my parents let me stay at Malfoy Manor for a whole month during the summer. We practically grew up together. You know I've been with Hermione for a while now. But remember last year?" Ron's smile morphed into something more sensual, and his hands gently crept behind Draco's neck. Ron leaned in closer and, in a gesture of intense affection, he brushed his nose against Draco's. "You were the first. You taught me about love. I'll never forget, ever."

Draco's brain was fogging over now, allowing only the most crucial thought to filter through: What exactly did we do last year?

Yet somehow, mulling over his current situation, Draco began to understand the intriguing advantage he now held over Ron. Draco could certainly put up with Ron's open affection for the short amount of time necessary for him and Harry to find the potion recipe. And Ron was intent on marrying Hermione anyway, so Ron couldn't be serious about the affection he was lavishing on Draco now. It had to be some Weasley brand of humor, right?

"You and this friend of yours," Ron said. "You're looking for a potion recipe, the one you talked about in your letter. No worries, Draco. My father has one of the most extensive libraries in England. I asked my father's library assistant. She's a very knowledgeable witch who's also quite expert at Potions. The description in your letter was very precise, and the library assistant claims we'll have no trouble at all finding your potion recipe."

The potion recipe! Maybe the Eastern Shore spirits weren't such idiots. Could they have sent Draco and Harry to the right place after all? The situation was looking more hopeful, and the spirits had even had the foresight to make preparations. They had sent Ron a letter with instructions here in the sixteenth century, making it appear the letter was from Draco.

"Your messenger," Ron was saying, "the one who delivered your letter, said he was in the employ of the Eastern Shore Network. I asked him if his employer was located on the North Sea coast, near Norfolk or Suffolk, but the messenger only smiled."

A smiling Ron took both of Draco's hands and led him forward. "Come on, Hermione's waiting to see you. She's been staying here with my family all this week, and she's been asking after you every day you've been gone." Ron's arm remained around Draco's shoulder as they wound their way through the hallways of the vast townhouse. "Draco, why on earth are you wearing school robes?" Ron was staring now at Draco's Hogwarts robes. "The beginning of term isn't for two more weeks."

"Er, I was in a hurry," Draco said, thinking fast, "and the servants at Malfoy Manor were cleaning the only clothes I had left, so I just put on my robes."

"Well, there are clothes for you to change into in your room."

Ron led Draco to "his room," and after Draco made a quick change into sixteenth-century clothing, Ron and Draco arrived in front of a very elaborately decorated door, cherubs with gilt trim carved into the wood.

"She's getting ready for tonight's party. Go ahead, I'll leave you two alone," Ron said. "Surprise her. I've already told you I would marry Hermione now if it weren't for my parents. They keep saying that sixteen is too young, that we should wait until we're seventeen. You know, I haven't fancied anyone but Hermione since the end of fifth year…" Ron's smile was shy, sweet and a bit guilty, "… erm, except for you once in a while."

This was delightful madness beyond anything Draco had dreamed of. Ron was so obviously in love with Hermione, and he wanted to marry her now, at the age of sixteen, even though his parents wanted him to wait another year. But just for added fun, Ron had a homoerotic streak a mile wide.

Back in the year 1996, Draco thought, the Weasel is going to catch so much good-natured hell for all of this. No, not the Weasel. Weasley. He's turning out to be too endearing to be a Weasel.

Draco could really see no downside to this turn of events in the sixteenth century. What had begun as an unsettling display of affection on Ron's part was turning out to be increasingly harmless, seeing as Ron was obsessed with courting Hermione. And it looked as though finding the potion recipe in the Weasley library would be no problem at all. Draco was lost in musing, amazed to discover that this was how Ron turned out when the circumstances of his life were different.

"I'll see you later." Ron gave Draco's shoulder a squeeze and headed back down the hallway.

Draco knocked on the door with a fair bit of apprehension. This was Hermione Granger after all, the bushy-haired know-it-all, overbearing at best.

Draco heard Hermione's voice from inside the room, but her intonation was lilting, and her manner of speaking was strangely sociable and playful. "Is that you, Ron? Bonjour, mon amour. Entre!"

Draco appraised the first evidence of this alternate Hermione Granger.

Granger speaks French, Draco thought. This is beyond strange.

However, Draco was determined to soldier on, so he opened the door, fearless of the bizarre consequences it might bring.

Draco stared at the apparition that was seated at the elegant dressing table. If a spectacular example of a fashion plate existed in sixteenth-century London, this was it. Hermione was richly dressed in expensive silks. She wore a dress with voluminous skirts. The bodice was fantastically embroidered with tiny beads and crystals, and it displayed Hermione's body to perfection. And her hair—gods, what was wrong with her hair? ! It was actually… beautiful. Gone was the electro-frizz of bushy hair, the bird nest that had always provided Draco with so much private amusement. Hermione's auburn hair was arranged into perfect, smooth waves that were piled atop her head and elegantly held in place by sparkling, jeweled barrettes. Surely the earth would crumble at any moment.

Draco had been watching Hermione for a bit, but she had not turned to look at him. She finally turned around from the dressing table, expecting to see Ron.

"Draco!" Hermione's delighted squeal shocked Draco out of his thoughts. She leapt out of the chair, flew toward Draco and wrapped her arms around him, kissing him firmly on both cheeks. "Why were you in Wiltshire for so long? Did your parents have to keep you imprisoned at Malfoy Manor for all of two weeks? It's summer holidays!" Hermione was giggling now. "You really need to be here in London with Ron and me. Ron's asked me to marry him in a year. We're celebrating and you absolutely must celebrate with us. After all, you and Ron have been inseparable since you were five years old."

In an act of sheer will, Draco forced himself to use Ron's given name. "You're right. Ron and I have always been inseparable. He reminded me that last year we were especially hard to separate. People would sometimes try to separate us using a crowbar, but he always offered such stiff resistance. When it comes to guarding our friendship, Ron has this visceral determination that's as hard as a rock."

"Draco, tell me you're happy for us."

"Please believe me when I say this. You and Ron getting married is for the best. I shudder to think of what sort of mischief he'd get himself into if he didn't marry you."

"Now please tell me you won't have to be back at Malfoy Manor for any more tedious responsibilities. Your parents have gone on holiday themselves, so Malfoy Manor must be deserted. We have to take advantage of the glorious summer." She sighed. "We'll be back at Hogwarts all too soon. Only two more weeks and we'll be starting classes again."

Hogwarts. Draco was piecing together the information. That's right. Hogwarts had existed since the Middle Ages. Did she say they'd be starting classes in two weeks? The Eastern Shore spirits must have been jolly enough to send Draco and Harry into the sixteenth century, plus an extra four weeks into the past, which would be the middle of August.

"Now first," Hermione said, opening a huge walk-in closet, "I have to pick out a pair of shoes."

There had to be hundreds of pairs of shoes in the storage space, and they exhibited every conceivable design. Shoes with bows, jewels, feathers and God knows what else. Hermione rummaged about from one side of the closet to the other and finally snatched a pair of shoes with heavily jeweled buckles on top of blue silk ribbons.

She held the pair of shoes up in triumph. "Très jolies, non?"

"Yes, very pretty," Draco managed.

Charging back into the dressing room, Hermione was over at a long table filled with fantastically decorated petits fours.

"Let's have a little snack, shall we? I know you like the ones with glazed strawberries," she said as she picked up some cream-filled strawberry creation with bright swirls of glazing and popped it into Draco's mouth.

"Now be a gentleman"—she was picking up a very large bottle behind the stacked trays of pastries—"and open this bottle of champagne for us."

Draco opened the champagne thinking that the only thing Hermione lacked was—too late, she'd already found it: a lace fan that revealed a painted pastoral scene when she opened it. Hermione waved the fan through the air and flounced about the room like a duchess as Draco finished pouring the second glass of champagne.

"No, not just those two glasses. Fill all of them," Hermione said, pointing to four more empty champagne glasses.

When Draco had filled all six glasses with champagne, he watched her set three of them side by side, then take the fourth and fifth glasses and—no, she wouldn't do it, would she? Oh yes, she would. Hermione was making a pyramid, using the fourth and fifth glasses of champagne as the second tier and placing the last glass on top. She beamed. "I get the top one." She lifted the first glass off the pyramid and took a sip. "Now you take the second one, and we simply must finish off all six glasses."

They were halfway through the pyramid of champagne glasses when a lady-in-waiting entered without knocking, and she was carrying… a large jeweled broach surrounded by feathers? The servant woman held Hermione's piled-up waves of hair steady and, by means of pins and fasteners, attached the outlandish adornment to the center of Hermione's already lavish coiffure. The servant held up a mirror.

"Yes! I love it." Hermione raised her eyebrows and glanced at her lady-in-waiting. "You don't think it looks too… busy?"

The woman pursed her lips and shook her head. "No, not at all. It looks delightful. I'll be downstairs if you should need anything."

The servant was out the door, leaving Draco and Hermione alone again, and Draco decided the time had come to ask about Harry.

Draco looked straight into Hermione's eyes. "Gra…" He stopped himself before he uttered Hermione's surname. "Hermione."

Hermione laughed in a way Draco was quite unused to, a little silvery bell sound. "HER-mione? You're teasing me now. You _always_ call me 'Mione. You haven't called me Hermione since we met at the beginning of first year."

"'Mione," Draco said, smiling in spite of himself. "I need to find Harry Potter."

Hermione grinned. "I was wondering how long it would be before you mentioned that. Earlier today, when Ron wasn't about, I was in the annex—you know, where the library is. I was doing some reading on Arithmancy. I just know that class is going to be awful, so I thought I'd better prepare for it before term starts in September. Anyway, this mystery boy by the name of Harry Potter shows up just outside the annex, wearing school robes, of all things. One of the servants brought him into the library and asked me if I knew him." Hermione laughed and spread her hands. "I'd never met him in my life, but he was inquiring after you, Draco, so I asked him to sit down with me, and we had the most unusual conversation there in the library. Afterwards, I had a servant bring him a change of clothes."

Draco found it difficult to imagine a conversation between Harry and Hermione in which she had no knowledge of her life in the twentieth century and didn't even know who Harry was.

"This Harry Potter is a very charming sort, but mysterious." Hermione laughed and one hand fluttered in the air. "He says all manner of things that I can't make heads or tails of. And I found it difficult to concentrate on what he was saying because there were ever so many colorful pieces of glitter that kept shooting off of his body. Tiny little flecks of multi-colored light. Quite maddening really. The library assistant here—that clever silver-haired witch who knows so much about Potions—she told me she saw the very same thing. The only time I've ever heard of anything like that was when I read about certain kinds of magical creatures. Veela, I think, are known to have that property."

"Harry's actually one quarter Veela," Draco said.

"I suspected as much. Anyway, he says he goes to Hogwarts. Well, I know he's not in Gryffindor and I told him so. I didn't think he was in Slytherin either—you would have mentioned him before, Draco. So I asked him if he was in Ravenclaw because I thought I heard the name once when I passed by the Ravenclaw table in the Great Hall. He answered yes, but he had such an odd look on his face when he said it. And he swears up and down that he's a friend of yours."

Draco had always thought he was skilled at keeping a poker face, and when he answered, he did his best to sound casual.

"Yes, 'Mione, he's my friend."

"Draco, I know you only too well. You and Ron have been closer to me than anyone at Hogwarts since first year." Hermione was looking at him shrewdly now. "I know that expression on your face. This Harry… he's a special friend of yours, isn't he? Come on, Draco. You can't lie to me," she said smiling. "Your thoughts have always been plain to me, even if you can keep them secret from everybody else." Hermione's claim was perhaps the most shocking thing Draco had heard up to this point. "But let's go down to the library," she said, rising from her seat. "I left your friend in the library because he was so interested in doing Potions research, and I can see you're eager to meet up with him."

Draco was seized by a wild inspiration. "'Mione, how do you get your hair to look so perfect?"

"You're the one who taught me so much about Potions, Draco. I got so good at creating potions that I was able to create my own potion for taming my bushy hair."

"Would you give me the instructions for the potion?"

"But Draco, love, why ever would you need it? Boys always keep their hair short, and your hair is perfectly straight."

"It's for a friend of mine, a girl I know back in…" Draco hesitated, "… er, back in Wiltshire. She has this really bushy, frizzy hair."

"I certainly can sympathize with your friend. I always have an extra copy of the potion instructions somewhere about," she said, taking a parchment out of a drawer and handing it to Draco. "Here. I hope she likes it. Come on, let's go."

A labyrinth of corridors led Draco and Hermione to a set of massive oak double doors, where Hermione left Draco to his own devices.

"Your friend is in the library. I won't interfere. I'll leave the two of you alone with each other."

After Hermione had disappeared down the corridor, Draco opened the double doors of the library entrance. Harry was seated at a long table piled with books and looked toward the door when he heard it open. Harry was up out of his seat, and Draco was across the room in a few steps. The two lunged at each other, arms wrapping around neck and chest and waist, legs twining around each other. Thrown into an unfamiliar sixteenth-century setting by surprise, Harry and Draco had been obsessed with the idea of finding each other. Reuniting was their only solace in this strange world. Alone in the library, they remained glued to each other as they kissed, like two gods in a Hindu sculpture, with their hands and legs winding their way about each other's bodies. Finally, they were able to bear allowing enough airspace between them to speak.

"The Eastern Shore spirits," Draco began. "They messed up utterly."

"I know. We were only supposed to travel four weeks into the past, which would be the middle of August."

"It's August, all right," Draco said. "I just finished talking to Granger, and she told me summer vac was almost over, and classes at Hogwarts are starting in two weeks. Granger was the one who knew you were here in the library. She led me here herself."

"Hermione was the first person I recognized when I got here. As soon as we touched the Time-Turner, I was standing right outside this annex building. Some servant saw me, but she wouldn't tell me who the master of the house was. Then the servant led me inside and Hermione was here in the library, doing some reading on Arithmancy. Draco"—Harry's eyes were as wide as saucers—"Hermione doesn't even know who I am. She acted like she was meeting me for the first time in her life."

"Harry, remember when the Eastern Shore spirits told us a guest account has less privileges than we have? We know about Granger from our own time, but she only knows about us from this century. Weasley and Granger are only experiencing a past existence, with no memory of their lives in the twentieth century. You and I are the only real time travelers. By the looks of it, this is the sixteenth century. The servant told me Queen Elizabeth the First is around and about."

"I saw some recent documents here in the library," Harry said. "The year is 1596. That's four hundred years in the past."

"Four hundred years and four weeks in the past. But maybe the Eastern Shore spirits aren't completely out of their minds. The potion recipe we need is right here, in this building."

"I know it is, Draco. I've been doing some research here in the library. But how do _you_ know that?"

Draco avoided Harry's eyes. "Someone else here in the household told me."

"'Mione wasn't even sure whether or not I could find it in the library. When I arrived here earlier, we talked about you because I told her I was looking for you, and I told her about the potion recipe we're looking for. I told her I go to Hogwarts, and she thinks"—Harry started laughing—"she thinks I'm in Ravenclaw. She'd never believe I'm in Gryffindor because she's in Gryffindor herself and she's never seen me before. And she didn't think I was in Slytherin because she thinks you would have told her about me. Erm, Draco, I couldn't believe this when she told me, but maybe you already know if you've been talking with her. She's been best friends with you since first year."

"Yeah, I found that out right away."

"So who exactly was it who told you the potion recipe was here?"

Honesty is the best policy, so out with it. Draco tried to keep his voice even. "Weasley told me."

"Ron's here too? ! Hermione didn't even mention him."

"He was the first one I met when I got here. Weasley and Granger both used the damn 'guest account' the Eastern Shore spirits gave them, and they followed us here. Sometimes I think your two friends believe that their life's mission is to drive me nutters."

"'Mione said she's a guest here. So are 'Mione and Ron both guests in this place? I figured that this townhouse—it's really more like a small palace—this probably belongs to some rich nobleman."

Draco reached his hand toward Harry and stroked his cheek in that tender way Harry had grown to love. "Harry." Draco reached his arm around Harry's neck, brought Harry's head to rest on his shoulder and stared into eyes that were the color of pastures and woodlands, the color Draco had always thought was the color of paradise. "Angel eyes." Draco kissed Harry softly on the forehead.

Harry just smiled. When Draco called him angel eyes, it made his heart melt—every single time.

"Let me go over the information a little at a time, OK?"

"That sounds kind of dramatic. This isn't bad news, is it?"

"Erm, more like bizarre news." Draco cleared his throat. "This palace belongs to Weasley's family."

"Ron Weasley and his family own all of this?"

"And probably a good deal more. Here in the sixteenth century, they're rich—really rich."

Harry couldn't help but laugh. "And you're always teasing Ron about his family being poor."

"Harry, I solemnly swear I will never tease Weasley about being poor again, but there are more important things you need to know. For one thing, even though Weasley and Granger don't remember anything about you and I right now, they'll remember everything that happens here in the sixteenth century when they return to the twentieth century."

"Yeah, I remember the Eastern Shore spirits saying that all four of us would retain our memories of whatever happens here when we get back."

"Things get downright peculiar in this century. You already know about Granger and I being friends since first year."

Harry nodded.

Draco took a deep breath. "There's more. Weasley and I have been friends here since we were five years old. Weasley's parents let him stay with me at Malfoy Manor for a whole month when we were five. We were really close friends all through our childhood."

"How about that, Draco?" Harry slapped Draco on the shoulder, grinning from ear to ear. "You're seeing what life would be like if you and Ron grew up under different circumstances."

Draco resolutely ignored Harry's enthusiasm. "Harry, Ron asked Hermione to marry her, and he's crazy about the idea, although his parents want him to wait a year since they're only sixteen."

"That's no surprise. Anyone could see that coming."

"I just want you to know that—before I tell you the rest of it. Please don't get upset."

"Before you tell me the rest of what? Draco?"

Draco didn't speak, but his cheeks started to color slightly.

"Your face is a little flushed," Harry said. "Is it too stuffy in here? Do you want me to open a window? Draco? Are you all right? You're starting to worry me."

Draco's voice was uncharacteristically hoarse. "Here in the sixteenth century, somehow things between Weasley and I are insanely different. Most people would find it alarming, really. Last year… er, who knows, maybe last year _and_ the year before that… Weasley and I were in bed with each other… frequently, from what Weasley tells me. And in this former existence, this licentious nonsense involving Weasley and I seems to have stopped after the end of fifth year because Weasley's started courting Granger. I honestly never thought Granger would serve a worthy purpose, but somehow she has."

Harry's mouth opened for a moment, then shut again.

"Harry, you know this is some crazy previous existence in the sixteenth century, right? It's not our real life in the twentieth century."

Harry was pressing his lips together in an effort to maintain a serious expression, but found it impossible, and a gentle smile played on his lips when he spoke.

"You and Ron. I'm trying to visualize this."

"Please don't visualize it." Draco was blushing in real earnest now. "After my arrival here today, I spent a fair amount of energy avoiding Weasley's affectionate attentions. On the bright side, I'm certain he doesn't have any erotic intentions. It looks like all of that ended at the end of last school year when he decided on Granger. I thank all the Gods that his priority is wooing her. I'm just happy you're not upset."

Harry's warm smile was still there. "No, I'm not upset. I think I understand human weakness, especially in Ron's case. He really has a very good heart. And Draco, you won't have to put up with Ron for long. All we have to do is get the potion recipe and we're out of here. The Time-Turner is safely in my possession. There is just one small problem I discovered here in the library when I found the potion recipe."

"You found it?" A smiling Draco held Harry by the shoulders. "Harry, you did it. We can go back to the twentieth century now."

"Not exactly. I found half of it, but it has to be what we're looking for. The library assistant who was here when I arrived is a witch who's a goldmine of information about Potions, and she pointed me right to the volume with the recipe we're looking for. The summary at the beginning explains that the recipe is used to control the romantic attraction created by certain magical creatures, and the instructions list every procedure and ingredient we've used up until this point." Harry walked over to the table and picked up a small leather-bound set of parchment pages. "Everything is in English except the title, which is in Greek. I can't make out the title of the recipe because I never studied Greek. I think the first letter is 'S.'"

Draco took the set of bound parchment pages. "S-p-a… something or other. No, I can't make out the rest of the title. My knowledge of Greek isn't much better than yours. So why do you say you only have half of the instructions?"

Harry turned to the last page. "Here at the end, it only gives the name of another potion recipe for the final assembly of the ingredients. I told the library assistant, and she said she would try to find out how to locate the missing part. She said she'd be back soon, so we shouldn't have long to wait." Harry moved very close to Draco, his hair brushing against Draco's face. "And as long as we're stuck here, you know, waiting around for the library assistant to get back, there's something I wanted to tell you." Harry was fidgeting, but Draco took him by the shoulders and held him still. "I meant to tell you yesterday, Draco, but we got so caught up with all the instructions the Eastern Shore spirits were giving us." Harry knew what he had to say, summoned his courage and looked straight into Draco's eyes. "Do you remember that I said I wanted to correspond with Fleur Delacour?"

"That evening in Dumbledore's office, at the beginning of term. Yes, I remember."

"I finally did, and she gave me loads of information about Veela." Harry turned his back to Draco and looked in the opposite direction. "All the complications of me being part Veela—all the unwanted effects on other people—it won't stop until I bond with my mate. Anyway, from what Fleur says, it usually takes quite a while for Veela to bond with their mate. Months she says. Sometimes even a year…" Draco sidled up behind Harry, holding him by the shoulders again, and Harry went on talking, "… which means that all the madness that's going on around me at Hogwarts—"

"You mean every boy at Hogwarts chasing you all over the school?"

"Yeah, all of that. If you were my mate, Draco, it would be months before the crazy Veela stuff ends, maybe even a year. Well, if you weren't prepared to put up with all that chaos for months and months…" Harry didn't trust himself to look at Draco, "… then I'd understand if you wanted to call it quits." Harry's voice was losing strength and breaking here and there. "I mean, I know the whole Veela thing must seem kind of weird to you." Draco turned Harry around to face him, but Harry had to finish no matter what. "Can you really love someone who's that weird, who's only three-quarters human?"

"Harry, beginning in June, when I came across you at Hogwarts Lake—these past several months—I've come to realize that you're everything I've ever wanted." Draco held Harry very close. "Do you remember what the spirits asked you this morning, before we came here? How have I furthered your success more than another student might have? And you wrote down that in the beginning, you felt like you were discovering what was in your soul for the first time, but now you couldn't tell the difference between your own soul and mine anymore. That's what I want as well, two souls forged into a single soul, because you're a part of me now that I couldn't bear to live without. And if we start on an experiment like that, it's for life." Draco held his eyes level with Harry's and waited patiently until Harry finally looked at him. "Have you anyone else who wants to love you for that long, someone who'll take care of you and be good to you no matter what happens?"

Harry shook his head the smallest fraction of an inch. "No."

"Because if you haven't anyone else to love you for a lifetime, then do you mind if I do?"

"No, I don't mind. Not in the least."

Draco brushed his finger along Harry's lower lip until his lips parted. Draco edged his mouth closer, but he paused, waiting for permission, then planted the most tender of kisses.

"Harry, come home to me."

Harry put his head on Draco's chest, and he knew he'd found his way home. Draco led Harry to a nearby sofa, and they rested there with each other, saying nothing, content with nothing more than being wrapped in each other's arms. Time passed slowly, and after a while, the two of them were jarred into awareness of their surroundings by the soft but insistent knocking on the door.

Draco nuzzled Harry's ear and whispered, "I think Weasley's library assistant is back."

Harry disentangled himself from Draco, moved toward the door and let the library assistant enter.

An elegantly dressed witch with silver-blond hair and a penetrating gaze presented herself. "Master Harry," the woman said, "I informed Master Ronald that you are here in our household. From what Master Draco had told him, he recognized your name. Master Ronald knows you're a friend of Master Draco, and he wants you to understand that you are most welcome here in our household." The assistant handed Harry the piece of parchment he'd been holding. "I brought Master Ronald the name of the potion recipe you're looking for, the name you'd written down on this parchment, and he says he knows exactly how to find it. However, it's not here, but rather in a library at a different location."

"Can I go there now?" Harry asked.

"Master Ronald prefers that Master Draco accompany him. He's waiting now."

* º * º *

Draco felt a welcome sense of independence as he sailed through the air on the broom Ron had lent him. Draco and Ron flew side by side, passing across Berkshire from east to west, first over low-lying, heavily wooded areas, then coming to gentle hills and small wooded valleys. Ron had taken some delight in keeping their destination a secret from Draco, simply telling him, "Don't worry, you know the way well enough yourself." Draco felt a creeping sense of unease at how eerily familiar the landscape appeared as they crossed into Wiltshire… too familiar. Suspicion gave way to plain shock as the open chalk hills and wide valleys led Ron and Draco directly toward… Malfoy Manor.

The two landed in front of a somewhat smaller version of Malfoy Manor than that which existed in the twentieth century. Two entire wings that Draco's ancestors had added in the eighteenth century didn't exist, but the central portion of Malfoy Manor looked quite the same to Draco as it always had.

Ron tossed their brooms against the wall in an entrance foyer and took Draco by the hand. Hermione's comment from earlier came back to Draco: "Your parents have gone on holiday themselves, so Malfoy Manor must be deserted." Draco could scarcely credit his senses as Ron led him through hall after hall, room after room, making it obvious that he knew every step of the way just as well as Draco did.

In one parlor, Ron hauled Draco behind a sofa, laughing. "Remember when we were eight? When we hid behind here while your mother was pouring tea for the ladies… and we'd put soapsuds in the teapot? I think every drop of blood drained from Lady Sinkworth's face while she sat there holding a teacup full of bubbles."

And so it went as Ron led the way through his "home away from home," beloved Malfoy Manor. Outside in the summer sunlight, Ron and Draco made their way across the enormous stretch of lawn that spread out directly in front of Malfoy Manor and paused to rest at the great fountain that lay on the other side of the green expanse. Draco lay stretched out on the stone perimeter of the circular pool as Ron, beside him, named each of the Roman gods and goddesses represented by the statues that grouped themselves about the fountain at the center of the pool. They strolled through the kitchen gardens, and Ron, who knew every row of trees and patch of vegetables, snatched a basket and gathered strawberries precisely where he knew he would find them.

Revisited memories turned into more than Draco bargained for when they wound up in the Blue Room, a cozy bedroom with a window that overlooked a small piece of meadow and dark woods beyond. Ron insisted that this was their "favorite room" during that summer between fourth and fifth year, and Draco found himself mistrusting the sparkle in Ron's eyes and grateful that Ron had set his sights on Hermione at the end of fifth year.

"All right then," Ron said, "let's go to the library and find that potion recipe you're looking for."

In the library of Malfoy Manor, Ron walked right over to a massive bookcase along the wall. The volumes in this bookcase appeared to cover the topic of magical plants. It took Ron very little time to find a slim volume titled "Mathematical Proportions for Sundry Herbology Potions."

Ron put one hand up against the bookcase next to where Draco stood and leaned in toward him. "I suppose you'll need to study the volume first. I could leave you here at Malfoy Manor for the night, and you could join me back in London in the morning. Or…" Ron's blue eyes were the same color as the curtains in the Blue Room, "… I could stay here with you tonight." Ron's eyes were blue, the curtains in their "favorite" bedroom were blue, and Draco certainly didn't want Ron's thoughts to turn blue.

"You go on back to London now," Draco said, "and I'll catch up with you in the morning. I'll be nothing but a bore here—writing down notes and looking up cross references. We still have two more weeks before the beginning of term."

Ron smiled and started out the door of the library. "Meet me in the dining hall at Weasley House at 10 in the morning," he said over his shoulder. "We'll go to the library together and see if there are any other documents you need for your Potions research. I charmed the broom I lent you with navigational instructions. You always get lost so easily in London."

* º * º *

The following morning at Weasley House in London, after taking breakfast, Hermione followed the corridor leading to the library and headed toward the library assistant's office, which faced the library entrance on the other side of the corridor. This morning, however, she intended to sneak into the library without being noticed by the library assistant, who was very conscientious about recording the name of anyone who visited the library. Hermione didn't want Ron to know she was in the library that morning because she intended to gather some study material for this year's Herbology class at Hogwarts, and she knew Herbology wasn't Ron's best subject. He was always so embarrassed whenever she mentioned helping him with Herbology, and she certainly didn't want him looking for her in the library.

So she carried a tray with tea and biscuits, tea she'd laced with her newly perfected potion, which she called Quick Nap. Anyone who consumed the potion would nod off to sleep for only several minutes and then wake up. The beauty of the potion was that no one would suspect that a potion had been at work at all, especially if they checked the time afterwards. They would believe they had only dozed off for a few minutes and think no more of it. Once Hermione sneaked into the library, she had only to wait for the library assistant to take her lunch in the dining hall. The charm that the assistant always used to lock the library door allowed no one to enter, but allowed anyone to leave the library. This was convenient for the library assistant since she had already recorded the name of anyone who was already in the library, and if anyone wanted to leave during lunch hour, it was fine with her.

"I've brought you tea and biscuits," Hermione said, entering the assistant's office. "Taste the tea and tell me if I've made it strong enough."

"Well, aren't you a ray of sunshine. Thank you so much, Miss Hermione," the assistant said as she took a large sip of tea. "Yes, the tea is perfect."

"I might be back later in the afternoon to do some research, but not now." Hermione waved goodbye as she scampered down the corridor. She stopped after she'd turned a corner and waited about a minute. Then she crept quietly back toward the assistant's office, peeked inside and… Yes! The library assistant was fast asleep. In a moment, Hermione had slipped past her, entered the library and stationed herself between two long rows of bookshelves in the Herbology section.

Some time after, Draco and Ron were marching down the corridor toward the library. The two of them stopped at the library assistant's office.

"Do we have the place to ourselves this morning?" Ron asked. "Is Miss Hermione using the library, perhaps?"

"No, Master Ron. Miss Hermione told me she might stop by later in the afternoon, but the library is quite empty now. No one at all."

Draco and Ron headed toward the Herbology section and stopped in front of the first row of bookshelves.

"You say you have everything you need?" Ron asked.

"Absolutely. I studied the document at Malfoy Manor, and Harry and I have everything we need to complete our research." Draco leaned up against the stable narrow end of the bookcase.

"As soon as you're ready to meet with your friend, Harry," Ron said, "ask the library assistant and she'll have one of the servants lead you to Harry's room. But let's take a look around the Herbology section anyway, just in case you spot any other volumes that might come in handy." Ron took hold of Draco's shoulders and leaned in toward him. The look in Ron's eyes took on the alarming sparkle Draco had noticed the previous day at Malfoy Manor. Ron brushed his nose against Draco in a fashion Draco had unavoidably become accustomed to. "Tell me once and for all, Draco. Are you happy Hermione and I are together? We were lovers, you and I. You taught me how to love. You can't have forgotten making love to me all through fifth year at Hogwarts… in the Astronomy Tower, the greenhouses, vacant classrooms in the evening. I'm astonished no one ever caught us. And our summer at Malfoy Manor, between fourth and fifth year…"

Ron was now pulling Draco away from the end of the bookcase and around the corner, walking backwards several feet and taking Draco along with him. It was clear that Ron was displaying simple affection and nothing more, but Draco had to shut his eyes at this point, if only to summon his patience and withstand this new onslaught of attention. They were now several feet back from the end of the bookcase, squeezed between two high bookcases on either side. Ron closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around Draco's shoulders, which caused Draco to open his eyes in exasperation. So Ron, with his eyes closed, wasn't able to see the horror-stricken look on Draco's face as Draco saw what was directly behind them. Ron took one more step backwards, pulling Draco toward his chest, and collided squarely into Hermione, who was frozen in place as she observed the present spectacle.

Hermione, having been on the other side of the bookcase during Ron and Draco's entire conversation, uttered the only two words that came to mind, considering the circumstances.

"Merlin's pants."

Hermione quickly slipped passed them and made her exit from the library, with Ron in pursuit.

* º * º *

Ron felt a spinning sensation and saw colors and blackness swirling around him. Finally, he realized he was sitting at the desk in the private sleeping quarters on the sixth floor of Hogwarts that Dumbledore had temporarily given Harry. He rushed to the window of Harry's room and looked down at the courtyard. Ron had always had perfect eyesight, and he spotted Professor McGonagall, perhaps on her way to Transfiguration class. Yes, he was back in the twentieth century, although he remembered all the events of the past 24 hours in excruciating detail. He remained at the window for a moment and then spoke.

"Bloody hell."

Ron stormed over to the desk, grabbed a blank sheet of parchment and placed it on the wooden communication board with the bas-relief of a Greek temple attached to the top, the very communication device he'd used to contact the Eastern Shore spirits on the previous day. He quickly dashed his first message down.

· · · · · · · · · Hello, Eastern Shore spirits. Are you there? Please frigging answer me.

Ron wasn't surprised when an answer appeared instantly.

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • Yes, Mr. Weasley. Your one-day time limit has expired. We hope that amount of time served your purposes. And please note, you are still listed as Harry's contact to receive deliveries for him if he is not present. Harry and Mr. Malfoy are still traveling in time and space. • • •

Ron found it difficult to remain civil.

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • Could you explain why we traveled four hundred years into the past instead of four weeks? And is Hermione Granger still traveling in time and space?

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • Actually, four hundred years _and_ four weeks. We had already programmed the time travel device for four weeks when we realized our translation error, so we just added the extra four hundred years. But no worries. We've updated our translation database. We do apologize for the inconvenience. Concerning Miss Granger, she used her guest account yesterday about one hour after you did, so she'll be returning one hour from now. • • •

Ron didn't have the patience to chitchat with these lunatic spirits any longer.

· · · · · · · · · Thanks so much for all the information. I have other things to attend to now.

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • Glad to be of assistance, and rest assured that our translation abilities are improving. Ciao. • • •

"Bunch of smart-asses," Ron muttered as he left Harry's room and headed toward the Gryffindor common room. When he arrived in the common room, there wasn't a single person there, which suited Ron's mood fine.

Ron walked over to one of the bookshelves and took down a Hogwarts photo album, showing all the current students, grouped by year and house. Ron turned to the pictures of sixth-year Slytherin students, looking first at Draco's picture and then at the rest—Blaise, Pansy and all the others Ron had disliked and mistrusted because they were in Slytherin House, as if that were a sound reason for disliking someone. A single silent tear coursed down his cheek, a tear that carried all the regret he would feel in the coming days—regret for the useless, irrational hostility that this wicked world was filled with. Ron put one hand into his front pants pocket. Yes, it was still there, the switchblade he'd borrowed from Dean to threaten Draco… in case Ron thought that Draco meant Harry any harm. He looked down at Draco's picture, and then all his memories came rushing back, memories of Malfoy Manor in the sixteenth century. There in the deserted Gryffindor common room, Ron wondered at how our most deeply held convictions could be so misguided.

Lost in thought, Ron didn't even notice the swirling whirlwind of air near the ceiling. The whirlwind formed itself into a thin, rectangular object, about the shape and size of a magazine or large book. The object, seeming to have a mind of its own, hurled itself down toward Ron, landing on a nearby table with such force that it made him start. Ron stared at the rectangular object, which was wrapped in plain brown paper. He picked it up and examined the words running across the top:

ESN Parcel Service  
We bring you the world—on time.

There was a graphic logo to the left of these words, a stylized map of the eastern Mediterranean coast. Now Ron read the delivery address in the center of the wrapped object:

Parcel delivery for Mr. Harry Potter  
c/o Mr. Ron Weasley  
Gryffindor Tower  
Hogwarts Castle

Ron tore the brown wrapping paper away and held Harry's first-year Herbology workbook in his hands. After the first few puzzled moments, Ron remembered that Harry had been looking for his Herbology workbook after he'd boarded the Hogwarts Express at the end of first year. He'd thought he must have lost it somewhere at Hogwarts before he'd packed. But Harry was trying to find this workbook very recently, wasn't he? He was even having dreams about it. Ron thought it had something to do with finding hellebore for his Potions project with Draco. Harry thought he'd made some notes about good locations near Hogwarts for finding hellebore. Ron wasn't sure whether Harry had found the hellebore, but in any case, the workbook might still be useful. It might have notes for other plants Harry needed and hadn't found yet. So Ron opened the workbook and started reading.


	13. Return of the Swamp Flora

**Title: **Congenital Magnetism  
**Author: **Ascyltus  
**Completed: **Yes  
**Summary: **At the end of his fifth year, Harry displays his effortless knack for landing himself in problematic situations. Luckily, Harry begins to develop some unusual abilities that he has inherited by virtue of being one-quarter Veela. Only Draco Malfoy seems to be immune to Harry's newly found powers.  
**Disclaimer: **This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Author's Notes:** Chapter 4 was too long, so I split it into two chapters. The new version of chapter 5, "Raiding the Spice Shelves," has several pages of new material at the end of the chapter. Chapter 14. The fic is complete.

**Chapter 13: Return of the Swamp Flora**

Draco watched Ron hurry out of the library to find Hermione, but his only thought, now that he had the second half of the potion recipe, was to find Harry and travel back to the twentieth century. As Ron had promised, the library assistant fetched a servant to take Draco to Harry's room, but Draco insisted on stopping at the room where Ron had let him change into sixteenth-century clothes. Draco retrieved his Hogwarts school robes from the corner where he'd thrown them, then let the servant lead him to Harry's room.

As soon as Harry saw a smiling Draco holding his school robes and the missing part of the potion recipe, he reached under his shirt and pulled out the chain that the Time-Turner was hanging from. Harry took the chain off and set the Time-Turner on a table.

"We get back the same way we came," Harry said. "As soon as we touch the Time-Turner together, we should start traveling. Let's change clothes before we leave."

"Hey, Harry"—Draco had pulled his robes over his head—"remember when we were in Weasley's library yesterday, reading the first half of the potion recipe? What do you think that last ingredient is? It's the only ingredient we don't have at Hogwarts. Phyllo something."

Harry looked at the first half of the potion recipe and read the name at the end of the list of ingredients. "Phyllo pastry dough. I've never heard of it. I guess we'll have to figure that out when we get back to Hogwarts."

After they'd changed back into their school robes, Draco slipped his arm around Harry and brought his head forward until their foreheads were touching. "Let's go home, angel eyes."

Harry and Draco slowly reached their hands forward. Their hands touched the Time-Turner at the same moment, and they found themselves back in Harry's room on the sixth floor of Hogwarts Castle, the temporary sleeping quarters Dumbledore had given Harry. Almost unwilling to believe they were home again, in their own time and place, they walked over to the window and looked down at the courtyard below and saw familiar students and teachers rushing to class. Harry and Draco collapsed into each other's arms in relief, remaining glued together for a time, just savoring the joy of finally being home.

"Draco," Harry whispered, "I'm curious to know why we had to go back in time four hundred years to get this potion recipe, aren't you?"

Draco was kissing the hollow of Harry's neck, but stopped and looked up when he heard Harry's question. "That's right," Draco said. "They told us we'd only be going back in time four weeks. Where the hell is that board for sending a message?"

There it was, still lying on the writing desk, the wooden board with Draco's small bas-relief sculpture of a Greek temple attached to the top. Harry had the board in his hands while Draco snatched a piece of parchment. Both of them were more than ready to register their complaints. Draco wrote down his message in a hasty scrawl.

· · · · · · · · · Hello, dearest spirits. This is Draco Malfoy. Harry and I are back from our little excursion to London. We have a few questions for you.

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • Mr. Malfoy, we hope you and Harry were successful in your search for the potion recipe. We took care to send Mr. Weasley a letter with a detailed description of the potion you're looking for. We hope he didn't have any trouble finding it. • • •

Harry took his turn writing down a response.

· · · · · · · · · This is Harry. Ron's family had a huge library with a very helpful library assistant, although one part of the potion recipe was in the library at Malfoy Manor, in Wiltshire. But this potion recipe looks like the one we're looking for. The summary says it's used to control the powers of romantic attraction created by magical creatures, and Draco and I recognized all the ingredients. They're the names of all the plants and flowers we collected in the bog areas near Hogwarts last week. I don't mean to quibble, but you told us we'd be traveling into the past four weeks. You do realize we wound up four centuries in the past, don't you?

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • Yes, our translation database was not what it should be regarding time units. Please forgive the oversight. We're always trying to improve our translation abilities since wizards correspond with us using so many different languages. We hope the mix-up didn't cause any undue inconvenience. • • •

Draco had been waiting for some time to vent a few concerns. He wrote quickly and pressed the quill hard against the parchment as he wrote.

· · · · · · · · · This is Draco Malfoy. My guess is that Weasley and Granger used their guest accounts and followed Harry and me. If they hadn't done something so irritating, we wouldn't have run across them. I thought they were supposed to be emergency contacts, and I fail to see where there was any emergency that required their presence.

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • Yes, Mr. Malfoy, your guess that they used their guest accounts to follow you is right, but it's quite incorrect to say you wouldn't have run across them if they hadn't used those guest accounts. The previous lives the four of you lived in the sixteenth century are what they are, and nothing would have changed that. Even if Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger had chosen not to use their guest accounts to follow you, they would both have been there when you arrived, and your circumstances would have been exactly the same. The only difference is that since they followed you to the sixteenth century, they have returned knowing everything that happened during your one-day visit. If they hadn't followed you, they would know nothing of their sixteenth-century existences. We don't really know if Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger will come to appreciate their newfound knowledge. As some commentators have suggested, ignorance is bliss. • • •

Draco was pressing the quill so violently that it threatened to tear the parchment.

· · · · · · · · · I really can't see why you couldn't just have sent us somewhere where we wouldn't run into Weasley and Granger at all. Would that have been asking for too much?

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • But running into Mr. Weasley, as you put it, was quite necessary because the correct potion recipe was located at the Weasley family's residence in sixteenth-century London. Some things in life are unavoidable. Wouldn't you agree? And besides, it is our opinion that when Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger decided to use their guest accounts to follow you, this actually benefited the project you and Harry are collaborating on. One of the most important requirements for the success of your project is trust and understanding between you and Harry. Since Harry named Mr. Weasley as both his emergency contact and the recipient for any packages while he was gone, we concluded that Mr. Weasley must be a close friend of Harry's. We think it's jolly that your one-day excursion offered you and Mr. Weasley a change of circumstances so that the two of you could become better acquainted. What better way to accomplish that than a completely different set of life experiences in a different century? • • •

Draco looked as though he might explode.

· · · · · · · · · Jolly is it? He knew my ancestral home, Malfoy Manor, as well as I did because he spent so much time visiting me during his childhood. I refuse to discuss the outrageous extent of our familiarity in this past existence in the sixteenth century. Suffice to say that Weasley knew the location of a birthmark at the top of my inner thigh. How jolly do you think that is?

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • You see? Never underestimate how useful a change of scene can be when you need to make progress. I'm sure you understand Harry's friend ever so much better now. • • •

Draco's grip on the quill was so tight that Harry had to ease it out of his hand before the quill snapped in two. Harry wrote down a question he hoped would change the subject.

· · · · · · · · · This is Harry again. Are Ron and Hermione still using their guest accounts?

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • No, their guest accounts had a one-day time limit. Miss Granger arrived back at Hogwarts School just before you and Mr. Malfoy did, and Mr. Weasley arrived one hour before that. • • •

· · · · · · · · · I suppose they were surprised to arrive at Hogwarts wearing sixteenth-century clothes.

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • No. As we explained before, they weren't really traveling in time like you and Mr. Malfoy were. They were merely reliving a previous life, and they appeared back in your time exactly the same way they left. You and Mr. Malfoy, on the other hand, were able to return with whatever clothes you were wearing and any souvenirs you had on your person because you were genuine time travelers. That's why you still have the parchment pages for the potion recipe you were looking for. • • •

Draco felt in the pocket of his robe, and he still had the small parchment scroll Hermione had given him in the sixteenth century, the potion recipe for taming frizzy, bushy hair. Draco idly wondered what Hermione's reaction would be if he gave her a copy of the same hair-care potion she had created for herself in the sixteenth century. But the potion recipe Draco and Harry were working on was a more pressing matter.

"Harry, ask them about the last ingredient in the potion recipe. The one with the crazy name. It's the only ingredient we don't have yet."

· · · · · · · · · I've got one last question that Draco just reminded me of. There's one ingredient in this potion recipe we don't have yet, and we've never even heard of it. It's called phyllo pastry dough. What's that supposed to be?

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • Don't worry about the characteristics of that ingredient. You'll become familiar with its use when you start to follow the potion instructions. We're sure you'll be able to find that ingredient in most cities or towns. Get in touch, Harry, when the potion is finished. Until then. Cheers. • • •

Draco stood up and said, "I'll go to Hogsmeade. There must be some wizard or witch who's heard of… What's it called?"

"Phyllo pastry dough," Harry said, reading from the potion recipe. "I'll go down to the Potions lab and start assembling the ingredients while you're gone."

Draco's left eyebrow shot up. "I don't know if that's such a great idea. What if you run into some of your many admirers on the way? The only thing that puts your powers of Veela attraction on hold is if I'm with you, but I'll be in Hogsmeade."

"I've got that figured out. I'll just use my Invisibility Cloak."

Draco shrugged. "As long as you know what you're doing."

Once Draco had left, Harry spent some time going over the list of ingredients. Quite a while had passed when Harry put the potion recipe down and opened the drawer where he'd left his Invisibility Cloak—only to find a note from Hermione in place of the Cloak.

· · · · · · Harry,

· · · · · · My apologies, but I had to borrow your Invisibility Cloak. I got back from my little trip to London  
· · · · · · and I'm trying to find Ron. I don't know where he is, and I don't know if he'll go to Snape's office or maybe  
· · · · · · Professor Dumbledore's office first. I'd much rather look for him without anyone noticing me. I promise  
· · · · · · I'll return your Invisibility Cloak as soon as I'm finished. See you soon, Harry.

· · · · · · Hermione

Harry was on the sixth floor of the castle, and getting down to the Potions lab in the dungeons without the Invisibility Cloak was now a rather dodgy proposition. The Veela-inspired craziness was still a problem whenever Draco wasn't close by, and Draco had to be halfway to Hogsmeade by now. But what was Harry supposed to do? Wait in his room like a five-year-old child for Draco to escort him to the dungeons? Harry dismissed the idea as cowardly. Besides, Harry was at more of an advantage now than he'd been on the Hogwarts Express at the beginning of term when the effects of his Veela attraction had taken him completely by surprise. Greg Goyle had taken his wand from him before Harry even knew the extent of his Veela-related difficulties, and his wand had then passed into Terry Boot's possession shortly afterwards. That wouldn't happen this time around. Forewarned is forearmed. Harry put both halves of the potion recipe in his pocket, and his wand was firmly in his grip as he left his room and eased his way down the corridor.

Classes were most likely in session, and Harry had made it as far as the Long Gallery, near the Viaduct Entrance, when his luck finally ran out. Lavender Brown and Seamus Finnigan were late for class and rounded a corner just as Harry was turning the same corner from the other direction. When the three collided with each other, Lavender let out a surprised squeal.

"Harry, where have you been all this time? I have to get to class, but I'm so glad you're back." Lavender paused, looking disoriented. She waved her hand in front of her face, as though a flying insect were distracting her. "You really should do something about all those sparkly pieces of glitter that keep flying off you. They make it really hard to concentrate."

Lavender hurried off to class, leaving Harry alone with Seamus, who was intent on making up for lost time.

"Harry, I haven't seen you for days—since you were in the hospital wing. You know, I was kind of standoffish when I last saw you, wasn't I? And I don't even know why."

Harry knew why Seamus wasn't all over him in the hospital wing. Draco had been there, and Draco's presence now had the effect of neutralizing Harry's Veela powers of attraction. But at the moment, Draco was somewhere in Hogsmeade… and Seamus had his hand around Harry's waist. But Harry sure as hell kept a firm grip on his wand, at least this time around.

"Seamus, I don't have time to chat." Harry was already out of Seamus's grasp and heading in the direction of the Viaduct Entrance. "I have a few errands to run."

Seamus had caught up with Harry and was about to lay hold of him, but Harry was too quick and already had his wand pointed at Seamus.

_Immobulus!_

Seamus was safely frozen in place as Harry left, but things were getting dicey. As Harry passed near the Defense Against the Dark Arts tower, he had a sudden inspiration. Fleur. He hadn't spoken to her since the evening before, and she might have more information that could prove useful. Harry was at the Viaduct Entrance, and the Defense Against the Dark Arts tower stood close by. He darted into Minerva McGonagall's office before anyone had a chance to spot him and threw some Floo powder into the fireplace. When he walked into the flames and stated his destination, Harry found himself looking into the same parlor in the Delacour family residence that he had seen on his first visit. Fleur was sitting at a table piled high with books and manuscripts, and the green flames in the fireplace seized her attention.

"Harry! I'm so glad you paid a visit. How have you been managing?"

"Not that great right now. I'm trying to get down to the Potions lab, which is in the Hogwarts dungeons, but one of the guys from Gryffindor was chasing me down the corridor. I had to cast an Immobulus charm on him."

Fleur's silvery laugh echoed through the parlor. "Well, Harry. Aren't you just a little slice of chaos?"

"Erm, I'd rather not be if I had my choice. I was wondering if you found any more information about Veela attraction. I'm really hoping the potion that Draco and I are working on will do the trick. But just in case it doesn't, have you any other ideas?"

"As a matter of fact, Harry, yes. I followed up on the only set of circumstances under which unwanted Veela attraction would stop immediately. Do you remember when I told you that there have been certain cases of Veela whose mates sent them letters they never received?"

"Yeah, I remember but—"

"And when the Veela finally saw the letter, the final bond between the Veela and their mate was instantly formed, even though it was long after the Veela's sixteenth birthday. I read more about those cases. It wasn't even necessary for the Veela to be the first person to read the letter in order for unwanted Veela attraction to stop. If anyone at all read the letter before the Veela, that person was no longer subject to the Veela's attraction. The Veela was not yet aware of the letter's existence, but the letter still had the power to stop Veela attraction after anyone read it."

"Fleur, there's no way Draco sent me any letters during our first five years at Hogwarts. We were always at each other's throats."

"All right, Harry, but I continued doing research after we spoke to each other last. Even if Draco never sent you a letter, I found a more likely possibility that could solve your problems. I uncovered two fascinating cases that might help a great deal because they prove that the final bond between a Veela and their mate can form instantly without the Veela's mate sending a letter. In the first case, from the nineteenth century, the Veela's mate did nothing more than carve the Veela's name into the bark of a tree. Certainly you know that sweethearts will often carve their names into a tree. The second case occurred quite recently in the South London area. The Veela's mate spray-painted a short message of love on the wall of a vehicle underpass. I think Muggles call it graffiti. In both cases, as soon as the Veela saw the carved or spray-painted message, the final bond was formed, even though the Veela's sixteenth birthday had long since passed, and the Veela's unwanted powers of attraction on other people stopped at once."

"That's all? Really? Just a few words carved on a tree or painted on a wall?"

"That's all, Harry. Even if Draco was too embarrassed to write you a letter, he might have secretly written your name somewhere. Then he wouldn't have to admit doing it. It's worth investigating. Otherwise, you can only expect a very gradual lessening of the Veela effects on other people. Even if your bond with Draco started forming right now, it would take months for your Veela powers of attraction to gradually lessen."

"It's never happens quickly?"

"After a Veela's sixteenth birthday has passed? No, Harry, never. No one will be immune to your powers until quite a long time from now—that is, unless Draco is close by. Even assuming that Draco is your mate, the only hope for a quick end to all of these unfortunate Veela side-effects is if Draco placed the image of your name somewhere, and his intent was affectionate. Harry, promise me that you'll ask Draco whether he might have carved your name into a tree or written it on a wall."

"I'll ask him." Harry heaved a deep sigh. "It just seems like Draco and I never have any luck. Every time I think we've got things solved, another door slams in our face. It feels like everything is stacked against us." Harry threw up his hands in defeat. "It's been that way since the day we met."

Fleur decided that the best thing she could suggest was action. "Finish your Potions project. We'll talk again when your project is complete."

Harry scraped his shoes against the floor and kept looking down, not even wanting to raise his head.

"Harry, don't give up. Maybe the two of you didn't get on so well during your first years at Hogwarts, but your love might be all the stronger because of the obstacles you've overcome. A great love will bide its time until it finally has a chance to bloom."

As Harry walked out of the fireplace, he could see the good sense in Fleur's advice. Harry sneaked out of Professor McGonagall's first-floor office, intent on getting to the dungeons and starting work on the potion recipe, but the gods had other plans, and Harry had always known that the gods had a peculiar sense of humor. He'd no sooner appeared in the Viaduct Entrance than he was met by Blaise Zabini and several other Slytherin boys.

"Harry," Blaise said, "we've been looking for you everywhere."

"Erm, I can't chat now, but I'll catch up with you later."

Harry took evasive action and headed away from them through the Viaduct Courtyard and then through the Quad. The group of boys was fast gaining on Harry, and he was forced to turn around and confront them just in front of the entrance to the North Tower.

"Harry"—Blaise was all smiles—"we caught up with Finnigan, that good-for-nothing git. As soon as we used a charm to unfreeze him, he admitted that he was chasing after you again."

Another Slytherin boy added his tuppence worth. "Don't worry, Harry. We'll keep him away from you."

Harry looked around and only the North Tower offered a handy escape. "Sorry, you guys, but I'm late for an appointment with… er, someone… yeah, someone in the North Tower."

Harry made a dash toward the Divination Stairwell and sped up the spiral staircase with Blaise and the rest following behind him from a fair distance.

"Harry," Blaise shouted, "we just want to make sure you're well looked after."

If Harry had been in a lighter mood, he might have smiled at Blaise's unintended candor. But, wand in hand, Harry concentrated on looking for a room where he could put a locking charm on the door. When he arrived on the seventh floor, at the top of the tower, the sight that met him was a wide-eyed Sybill Trelawney with her wand pointed in front of her.

"Mr. Potter! I should have known. I heard the commotion in the stairwell below, and I'm sure it's more of that unfortunate Veela-inspired disorder that's been following you of late. Quick! Up the stepladder and into the classroom."

Even if Harry had the inclination to argue, there were no other options, so he climbed the stepladder leading to the Divination Classroom followed by Sybill Trelawney. Once inside the classroom, Trelawney led Harry to her "seidr chair," the antique chair from medieval Sweden that a witch uses to go into a magical trance. Harry remembered that this was the chair she'd used when her unfortunate spell produced gigantic swamp vegetation that had chased Harry and Draco through most of the castle.

"Mr. Potter, I'm so sorry for my lack of skill the first time I used the seidr chair. I'm quite expert at its use now"—Trelawney beamed with pride—"and I've perfected the swamp spell I bungled the first time." Her smile was warm with sympathy. "I promise you, I know exactly what I'm doing."

A cold spike of fear shot up Harry's spine. He had faced Voldemort. He had faced imminent death. But Harry decided, then and there, that nothing in all the world was more terrifying than Sybill Trelawney declaring that she knew exactly what she was doing.

At that moment, the circular trapdoor that led to the classroom flew open, and Blaise and the other boys burst into the Divination Classroom.

Harry still had his wand, but Trelawney pointed hers at the other boys at once and said, "You do not have permission to enter this classroom, gentlemen. Bear in mind that I am a faculty member."

Not intimidated in the least, the other boys had their own wands trained on Trelawney.

"We have to bring Harry back with us," Blaise said, "and see to it that all his needs are met."

"Then I have no choice but to leave this tower," Trelawney said. She gave Harry a sharp push downwards, catching him completely unawares, and Harry fell into the seidr chair, whereupon something resembling the seat belt of a Muggle automobile locked itself into place across his waist. She made a quick flick toward the window with her wand, and the window opened wide. Trelawney stepped onto the horizontal wooden stretcher near the bottom of the chair, which joined the two legs in back. She grasped the top rail of the chair with both hands, shouted some incomprehensible mix of Swedish and Latin, and the seidr chair flew out the window and into the skies above Hogwarts with its two passengers in tow.

"Trelawney's abducted Harry!" Blaise could be heard shouting, as he and the others raced back down the Divination Stairwell.

Meanwhile Trelawney steered the flying seidr chair away from the castle, but unwisely, she steered in the direction of the Quidditch pitch.

"We shall have to land, Mr. Potter," Trelawney said as the chair began to descend. "The seidr chair needs brief periods of rest on the ground, similar to the way a Muggle automobile needs to refuel."

Their landing was less than ideal, and Harry felt the seat belt unfasten while the chair scraped and bumped along the ground, and he tumbled onto the grass, although he was fortunate enough to keep hold of his wand. Trelawney's wand, unfortunately for her, bounced out of her hands while the seidr chair was knocking along the ground during its landing, and her wand ended up on the ground several yards away from her. To make matters worse, a few Quidditch players emerged from behind the Quidditch locker rooms… then a few more… and finally Roger Davies, until almost the entire Ravenclaw Quidditch team was running toward where Harry and Trelawney had landed. Cho Chang was the only player who had decided not to join the Ravenclaw Quidditch team that day for a practice session.

All six of the boys who were on the Ravenclaw team surrounded Harry, preventing Trelawney from assisting him, and they took possession of her wand before she could reach it. Trewlaney, now wandless, had to think of some other way to assist Harry, so she sat in the chair herself and commanded the chair to become airborne again. From her seat high in the air, Trelawney pointed to the Ravenclaw Quidditch players. "I insist that you release Mr. Potter and allow me to escort him back to the castle."

The Ravenclaw players were in no humor to hand Harry over to Trelawney. Roger Davies had his arm wrapped around Harry's shoulder in an unnecessarily affectionate manner. He looked up into the air at Trelawney and shouted, "Harry needs our assistance more than he needs yours, Professor Trelawney."

"You leave me no other option then," Trelawney shouted back. "Gentlemen, kick-start your brooms… and may the gods have mercy on you." She raised her arms in the air. "O magical plant life of the Danube swampland, sacred ancestral homeland of the Veela race, come to Harry's aid! Water lily, bulrush, swamp flower…" Trelawney made a terrible grimace as she unleashed her last command "… dreaded Duplicator Plant!"

Roger scowled. What in the wide world of sports was a Duplicator Plant?

Trelawney followed this last incantation with a string of shouts in Latin. Some examples of plant life with most peculiar shapes appeared in the sky, and they were flying from the direction of Hogwarts Lake. The first arrivals were giant water lily pads with long trailing stems. Two of these monstrosities attached themselves to Trelawney's seidr chair, securing themselves by wrapping their long stems around the chair and Trelawney herself like rope. Off they flew back toward the castle with a captive Trelawney shouting useless spells in a failed attempt to free herself.

The next flying members of the plant kingdom to join Harry and the Ravenclaw Quidditch team were gigantic red and yellow fluorescent mushrooms. Two enormous mushrooms flew toward Harry and positioned themselves on either side of him. The cap of the first mushroom turned itself upside down and then reattached itself to its stem, with the underside of the mushroom cap now forming a hollow depression. The other mushroom knocked Harry into the hollow upside-down mushroom cap of the first, and Harry held onto the sides of the mushroom cap as the entire plant decided to sail high into the air and head back toward Hogwarts Lake, from whence it had come.

Roger and the other players mounted their brooms, determined to give chase, but not before they saw a flat circular plant flying into the building where the Quidditch equipment was stored.

"Davies!" shouted one of the players. "What's that thing up to? It's going into the equipment shed."

"Forget about that," Roger shouted back. "We've got to save Harry."

The Ravenclaw boys were all in the sky now, racing after the giant mushroom that Harry was riding through the air on. Glancing over their shoulders, the Quidditch players could see that they were themselves being chased by newly arrived species of swamp flowers of the most bizarre forms and colors. These were followed by huge bulrushes. Whenever any of the Ravenclaw boys got close to Harry, a flower about the same size as the boy would fly above him, and then the flower twisted itself as though someone were wringing water out of a towel. This drenched the Quidditch player in brightly colored liquid.

"Strawberry juice!" The Ravenclaw player had no choice but to slow down as he flew, allowing the mushroom carrying Harry to elude the player. "Why the hell am I covered in strawberry juice?"

"This one just soaked me with pineapple juice!" another boy shouted.

The strange party of boys and plant life was now over Hogwarts Lake. At this point, the Ravenclaw Quidditch players saw the oddest guest of all arrive. The flat circular plant now joined them, the one they had seen near the shed that housed the Quidditch equipment, but a large bulge appeared in the middle of the circular form. Giant bulrushes flew close to the flat circular plant, which now split in half to become two separate circular leaves. And attached to the inside of one leaf was… a Quaffle and a Golden Snitch? Several players were trying to reach Harry, so they didn't see the two great circular leaves snap together and separate again. This produced an exact duplicate of the original Quaffle and Golden Snitch, and the duplicates popped off the plant. The bulrushes, waiting for this opportunity, batted the duplicate Quaffle and Golden Snitch toward the unsuspecting Ravenclaw players, knocking them off course.

"Hey, Davies," one boy yelled, "didn't Trelawney say something about a Duplicator Plant?"

Additional duplicates of the original Quaffle and Golden Snitch soon cluttered the sky as the bulrushes batted them toward the hapless Ravenclaw players, effectively guarding Harry and preventing him from being approached by any of the boys. This aerial battle continued only briefly before Harry saw an object streaking toward him through the sky from the direction of Hogsmeade. The small dot in the sky grew to become a wizard flying on a broom. As the human figure flew closer, Harry could make out the athletic shoulders, and he could see the wizard's head more clearly—short blond hair that looked like nothing so much as a shining helmet that reflected the sunlight. Draco! Harry raised his right arm as Draco flew close and was able to pull himself up out of his mushroom-cap seat and onto Draco's broom, wrapping his arms tightly around Draco's waist. The bulrushes, meanwhile, continually launched dozens of Quaffles and Golden Snitches at the Ravenclaw players, forming a shield of protection around Harry and Draco. As Draco sped away toward the castle, Harry gazed over his shoulder toward the chaotic jumble of Ravenclaw players on brooms, variegated plant life, Quaffles and Golden Snitches that now littered the sky.

Draco took advantage of an open window located close to Harry's sleeping quarters on the sixth floor. He steered the broom through the window and landed, without too much fuss, in the corridor leading toward Harry's room.

The two spent a few moments standing in the corridor, their bodies fused together, chest against chest. Harry was absently stroking Draco's hair.

"Harry, what happened to your Invisibility Cloak?"

"Hermione left me a note saying she borrowed it. She wanted to see whether Ron went to see Snape or Dumbledore, and she didn't want anyone to notice her. I thought I could make it down to the dungeons without it because I had my wand." He raised the wand he still held firmly in his grasp. "I was doing just fine on my own. I ran into Seamus, but I cast an Immobulus spell on him. Then I ran into Blaise and some other guys from Slytherin just outside the North Tower, and I wound up near the Divination Classroom. Trelawney was there, and I'm sure we'd have been able to talk Blaise and the others into going back to class because Trelawney and I both had our wands. But Trelawney had this brilliant idea."

Draco shook his head. "God save the world from Trelawney's brilliant ideas."

"Actually, she's quite good at controlling that flying chair now. And I think she really aced the spell for the plant life. Those plants were definitely on my side. I mean, they were protecting me. I'm sure that giant mushroom thing could have gotten me back to the castle."

"Maybe Trelawney finally does have her spells down. Even so, I think you were better off flying back with me than riding through the sky on some huge mushroom."

"I see your point," Harry said, smiling. "So did you get the last ingredient in Hogsmeade?"

"I ordered it."

"You had to order it?"

"I asked everywhere, and no one had ever heard of phyllo pastry dough. Finally, I found a witch who'd lived in Greece for many years, and she knew how to prepare it, but she said it would take a while even using magic. She said she had to find a big enough table because the dough has to be stretched out two feet wide and three feet long. She told me to come back in an hour or two."

"You have to stretch it?" Harry thought over the novel idea. "It doesn't sound like anything that would normally be part of a Potions recipe. I can imagine what Snape would say."

Draco laughed imagining Snape's reaction. "I want to go back to Hogsmeade now. Maybe it's taking less time to prepare this ingredient than I expected." Draco had his broom in one hand, and the other hand was in back of Harry's neck, pulling him close. "I won't be long, so just stay up here. Don't worry about trying to get to the dungeons without your Invisibility Cloak."

"OK," Harry said as Draco walked toward the open window. "Wait." Harry's voice had a new urgency that made Draco turn around at once. "There's something I wanted to ask you because it might help the Veela complications… er, take less time to stop." Harry came right up to Draco, their noses almost touching. "Did you ever carve my name into a tree, or maybe write it on a wall? You know, when you like someone… you might carve their name into the bark of a tree."

The edge of Draco's mouth curled up. "You mean like inside a heart? Something like that?"

"Yeah."

Draco looked puzzled but answered anyway. "No, Harry, I can't say I ever did. Why would that help with the Veela problems?"

Harry shrugged. "It's not important. It was just a hunch I had." He smiled and brushed his cheek against Draco's. "Don't worry about it."

Draco gave Harry a soft, slow kiss. "I'll get back as soon as I can."

The last glimmer of hope that Fleur had given Harry had just vanished, and he couldn't help but wonder why it had to be so difficult for him and Draco to find an easy way home into each other's arms. Harry watched Draco as he flew away from the castle, and he kept staring into the sky as the form on the broom became a tiny speck. He turned from the window and shuffled slowly down the corridor. His room was just around the corner, and he was relieved to have a little time to himself—then he stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Ron standing by the door of his room.

Several thoughts struck Harry at the same time. This was his best friend of many years, and he hadn't seen Ron since that visit in the hospital wing, but he couldn't help but hold his wand a little tighter. He remembered Ron trying to seduce him while the two of them were on a swinging chandelier near the ceiling. Harry cringed when he thought of that memorable predicament. It was only when Draco had arrived that Ron was back to his old self again. Draco's presence was the only thing that calmed things down. But Draco was somewhere near Hogsmeade by now. There was no telling what kind of Veela madness would start this time around. But Harry had his wand… just in case.

"Harry, I have to talk with you. Can we talk in your room?"

Harry realized something was off, or rather, different. It was Ron's manner. As hard as it was to believe, Ron was behaving as though Harry's Veela magnetism had no effect at all on him, just like he'd always been before all the Veela craziness had started on Harry's sixteenth birthday in July. But that just wasn't possible. Fleur had told him it would be months before Harry would form a final bond with his mate. The effects of Veela attraction on other people would go away little by little—not all at once like this.

Harry walked right up to Ron until they were toe to toe, still holding his wand fast. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Ron acted like erotic thoughts were the last thing on his mind. This simply could not be. Was Fleur wrong about everything? But how could she be? She knew more about Veela than anyone at either Hogwarts or Beauxbatons. The world had turned upside down. Every piece of information that used to be documented fact was now wrong, and Harry was left to figure it all out from scratch.

"Harry, mate," Ron said, smiling, "I think you can put your wand down."

"You aren't going to do anything like…" Harry shifted back and forth "… you know, when you visited me in the hospital wing?"

Ron's smile was calm and sure. "That was just that Veela nonsense. But it's over now."

"How do you know it's over?"

Ron paused, as though he hadn't even considered the question. "I'm certain it's over, Harry. It's a gut feeling."

Then Harry noticed that Ron had been holding a rolled-up magazine in his hand—something that looked like a magazine anyway. "All right, Ron," Harry said, opening the door, "come on in."

"So, Ron"—Harry felt awkward broaching the subject—"I guess you were as surprised as Draco and I about the trip to London." Harry was tempted to say something humorous, but decided against it. "We all thought we'd be going back in time four weeks, right?"

"Harry, there's something important I have to tell you. The Eastern Shore spirits sent you something… a package. But you hadn't gotten back yet, so they sent it to me. It's something you lost at the end of first year, something you were looking for when you were on the Hogwarts Express going back to London."

Ron unrolled the object he'd been holding. With dawning wonder, Harry realized what it was. "My workbook from Herbology class." A smile crept across Harry's face. "You know, I always thought I'd lost that workbook at Hogwarts at the end of first year, sometime during the last week of term. In the dream I kept having… every time I had the dream, I told Hermione I couldn't believe I lost it. But it wasn't really a dream, it was a vision of something that really happened at the end of first year. Ron, I didn't lose my Herbology workbook at Hogwarts." Harry's face was radiant with pleasure, knowing Draco had actually wanted something to remember him by. "I finally saw what happened at the end of my dream. Draco took it out of my suitcase in the train station before the Hogwarts train left for London. Later, when I told Draco about the vision I had, he told me he wanted…" Harry looked down at the ground. "He told me he wanted a keepsake. He wanted something that would remind him of me." A smile still played on Harry's lips while he lost himself in his thoughts for a moment.

Harry looked back up at Ron. "Then his father spotted Draco and pulled him away because Lucius saw me getting out of the train to look for my suitcase. He didn't give my workbook back to Draco. Lucius just kept it himself. Draco told me Lucius probably just threw it away." Harry shrugged. "It's just a worthless school workbook after all."

If Harry didn't know better, he could have sworn Ron's eyes were too shiny and watery, which wouldn't be like Ron at all.

"Harry…" Ron strained to get the next words out, and it was a few moments before he found his voice. "I don't think Draco wanted your workbook as a keepsake."

Harry blinked at Ron's surprising use of Draco's given name. Ron's next words were even more unexpected.

"I think he meant to put your workbook back in your suitcase, but then Lucius caught Draco and pulled him away before he could."

Harry started to laugh at the idea. "That sounds crazy. Why would Draco have taken it out of my suitcase if he only wanted to put it back again?"

As he gave the slender volume to Harry, Ron's hand shook slightly. "There's a bookmark where you should start reading. This workbook belongs to you, Harry. I think you've been waiting a long time to get it back."

Then Harry saw the green and silver Slytherin bookmark stuck in the workbook. It was one of the bookmarks that all Hogwarts students received as a welcome gift when they began their first year; each student was allotted a small supply of bookmarks that bore the colors of whichever house they had been sorted into. By second year, the gift bookmarks had become something of a joke, and no one would be caught dead using their first-year "welcome-to-Hogwarts" bookmarks. But there it was, sticking up out of Harry's Herbology workbook—a green and silver bookmark that Hogwarts School had given to first-year Slytherin students.

Harry lifted the end of the bookmark and saw the square block letters written on it: "For Harry." He looked at Ron, unable to understand what a first-year Slytherin bookmark was doing in his Herbology workbook. Harry opened the cover and saw that the bookmark had been placed between the cover and the flyleaf. The inside front cover and both sides of the flyleaf were filled with writing. Harry instantly recognized Draco's handwriting, although the rounded script looked more childish than the handwriting Draco produced now. After he read the first couple sentences, his head snapped up, his eyes wide and uncomprehending. Harry heard Draco's words running through his mind, something Draco had told him three days before, in the great oak forest south of Hogwarts:

"I think you can figure it out. I loved you from the very beginning, when I saw you in that robe shop."

"Ron…" Harry had to concentrate to make words come out, "… would you mind if I read this alone?"

Ron slipped quietly out of the room. Then Harry looked back down at the inside cover of the workbook and began to read what Draco had written to him so long ago.


	14. The Boy in the Robe Shop

**Title: **Congenital Magnetism  
**Author: **Ascyltus  
**Completed: **Yes  
**Summary: **At the end of his fifth year, Harry displays his effortless knack for landing himself in problematic situations. Luckily, Harry begins to develop some unusual abilities that he has inherited by virtue of being one-quarter Veela. Only Draco Malfoy seems to be immune to Harry's newly found powers.  
**Disclaimer: **This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Author's Notes:** Chapter 4 was too long, so I split it into two chapters. The new version of chapter 5, "Raiding the Spice Shelves," has several pages of new material at the end of the chapter. Chapter 14, the final chapter, is the only new chapter. The fic is complete.

**Chapter 14: The Boy in the Robe Shop**

Harry held his first-year Herbology workbook in his lap, open to the letter Draco had written on the inside cover and flyleaf. A green and silver Slytherin bookmark draped itself over the edge of the workbook. He couldn't bring himself to look back down at Draco's letter for a while; the first few lines had already burned themselves into his memory:

_Dear Harry,_

_· · · · · · You probably weren't expecting to get a letter from Draco Malfoy. I surprised you, didn't I? I guess I surprised myself too. At the beginning of term, I tried to be your friend. I offered you my hand, but you wouldn't take it, and I still don't know why._

Harry squeezed his eyes shut. The sound of a train rushing by filled his ears, and Harry realized he'd heard that sound before when he'd been reminded of how he had rejected Draco at the beginning of first year. Harry gathered his nerve, then looked back down at the inside cover of the workbook and continued reading.

_· · · · · · I wanted to be your friend from the very first time I saw you, in Madam Malkin's robe shop. I don't think I'd ever met anyone like you before. I saw you in that robe shop, and everything else in the world disappeared. You had wild, crazy hair and bright green eyes. I thought it made you look like a lion. Maybe not a full-grown lion, more like a lion cub. But it's better not to try to compare you to anything. I just wanted to be with you, and you wouldn't have anything to do with me. You didn't seem to know a lot about wizarding, so I thought maybe if I could teach you about Quidditch, you'd be friends with me. But you wouldn't even shake my hand._

_· · · · · · I didn't tell my father that I know you. I've heard my father mention your name before. He definitely knows who you are. Everyone does because you defeated the Dark Lord when you were so young. It's not that Father sounded like he disliked you. He sounded as though he thought you were dangerous, so I decided it was better if I didn't tell him your name. I just wrote to my father and told him that there was this boy at school, and I wanted so much to be his friend, but the boy just ignored me. Father told me not to be too disappointed about it right now because the future might be different. He said if two people are destined to be friends, fate would bring them together in spite of any obstacles._

Fleur. She had said something very much the same. Harry strained to remember her words:

"Harry, don't give up. Maybe the two of you didn't get on so well during your first years at Hogwarts, but your love might be all the stronger because of the obstacles you've overcome. A great love will bide its time until it finally has a chance to bloom."

Harry looked back down, determined to read until the end.

_· · · · · · I was angry with you all year, Harry. I was so angry that I wanted you to get in trouble for taking that stupid dragon of Hagrid's up to the Astronomy Tower in the middle of the night. But I stopped being angry with you the night of our detention in the forest. When I saw that hooded thing next to the dead unicorn, I knew I should stay with you no matter what. That creature meant you harm. I could feel it. But no matter how much I tried to convince myself to stay with you, I couldn't. There was something about the creature under the hood that was so unspeakable that I couldn't help running from it._

_· · · · · · I wrote to my father and told him about our detention that night. I told him what happened to us in the Forbidden Forest. Father wrote back and told me what I did was shameful. He told me that if I cared about you and wanted to be your friend, I would have stayed by your side when you were in danger. I promised myself I would never make that mistake again. But there was one last thing my father said in his letter. He told me never give up. If there's something that means a great deal to me, never, ever give up. So I'm putting this back in your suitcase for you to read because I'm not giving up._

_Draco M._

Harry rose from his seat and rolled up his Herbology workbook. He left his temporary quarters on the sixth floor and walked through the corridors of Hogwarts Castle, making his way to the first floor. Mid-morning classes had let out, and students filled the corridors. Seamus Finnigan turned the corner of a corridor on the first floor and, when he saw Harry, headed directly toward him.

"Harry, where were you yesterday?" Seamus was already next to Harry, although he showed no inclination to touch Harry while he was talking. "We were all asking for you, and Dumbledore told us you were taking another day off away from the castle to get ingredients for that Potions project you and Malfoy are working on. When are you two going to finish that project?"

To Harry, it all felt like some kind of miracle. Until today, Draco's presence was the only thing that kept Harry's Veela powers from affecting the other male students, but Draco was far away in Hogsmeade, fetching the last ingredient for the potion recipe. And here stood Seamus, as cool and collected as Ron had been earlier, chatting away as though lecherous thoughts were the farthest thing from his mind. Harry looked around as he spoke with Seamus, and the extent of this new miracle made itself known. The students milling around in the hall were all behaving toward Harry just as they had before he'd come into his Veela inheritance on his sixteenth birthday. His old world at Hogwarts was back again.

Then Harry noticed a knowing smile on Seamus's lips and a shrewd glint in his eyes, and it was clear that some shift in understanding had occurred. Something was different in Seamus's demeanor after all. Was it a lack of innocence, or was it just that hypocrisy had vanished?

"Seamus, do you remember when the Ravenclaw and Slytherin Quidditch teams caught me alone with Kyle Urquhart in the locker room? At the end of term last year. You weren't there, but the Ravenclaw and Slytherin players must have told you about it. Actually, I think they told the whole school about it."

Seamus's smile didn't fade. "I can see what you're getting at, Harry. People were quick to judge you. It would look pretty stupid if I did that"—Seamus started laughing now—"I mean, considering everything I did on the Hogwarts Express… oh, yeah… and earlier this morning."

Full-color visions of the trip on the Hogwarts Express filled Harry's mind. First, Seamus sneaking into Harry's train compartment by disguising himself as the trolley witch. Next, Seamus tossing the gray wig and trolley-witch disguise aside and launching himself at Harry, using the element of surprise to snatch Harry's wand away from him. The last vision was Seamus sidling up from behind and gluing his free hand to Harry's bum, then squeezing hard.

"Yes, I remember," Harry said. "A picture is forever."

"Hear me out on this, Harry." Seamus kept his distance from Harry while he spoke, and he looked around to make sure no one else was within earshot. "I've known about you being one quarter Veela since last Friday," Seamus said, lowering his voice, "when you were still in the hospital wing. Remember when I walked in? Everyone was talking about how Malfoy was neutralizing the effects of your Veela powers. Snape and Ron explained the whole Veela thing to me after we left the hospital wing that night, but they swore me to secrecy, so I promise you, none of the other students know." Seamus took a step closer, toe-to-toe with Harry. "You know, I'd never fancied boys before that train ride on the Hogwarts Express. I suppose what happened… your Veela thing… I don't think your Veela powers would work on me if I wasn't capable of fancying a boy at all. I mean, that type of love had to be a part of me in the first place, right?" Seamus had a glint in his eye that bespoke anarchy. "And now I know a bit more about the extent of my erotic capacities, thanks to you, Saint Potter."

The title "Saint Potter" took on a distinctly off-color connotation for Harry. Had the sixth- and seventh-year boys made Harry the patron saint of something-or-another? Fleur's silvery voice echoed through his mind: "Mon dieu, Harry! You've even got the straight ones chasing after you."

And here stood Seamus, an erstwhile straight one, continuing his train of thought. "The Veela thing is gone, I can tell. But doesn't Malfoy have to be around for that to happen? Like when he visited you in the hospital wing. I don't see Malfoy anywhere about." Seamus held his eyes on Harry, and then the truth dawned on him. "Your Veela powers don't have the same effect anymore. The change is permanent, isn't it?"

"I don't know, but if the change is permanent, it solves loads of problems."

"We're still on break between classes. Let's test it out." Seamus clamped his hand around Harry's arm. He led Harry into a corner of the Middle Courtyard filled with Gryffindor students; Blaise and Pansy stood apart from the Gryffindors, but close enough to exchange insults if need be. Harry was surrounded at once by the crowd of Gryffindors. Most of his housemates were close enough to touch Harry, but no one came closer than what was usual for conversation.

"Harry." Dean Thomas was tapping Harry on the shoulder. "When are you going to come back to Gryffindor Tower? Dumbledore keeps telling us that first you have to finish up your Potions project with Malfoy."

"By the looks of things, I might be back in Gryffindor Tower soon. I think Draco and I are ready to wrap up the project."

Lavender snaked through the crowd and moved directly in front of Harry to offer her assessment. "Harry, no stupid glitter anymore! Congratulations! I mean it's been impossible to have a normal conversation with you ever since the beginning of term. Do you have any notion how irritating all those little colored pieces of glitter were, the ones that flew off you in every direction? It was like trying to speak to someone while they were throwing big handfuls of confetti in your face."

"Confetti?" Pansy's voice boomed from a short distance away. "No, Potter, it was much worse than that. At least little pieces of confetti have the decency to obey the law of gravity and fall to the ground. Your blasted glitter, or whatever the fuck you call it, is actually airborne and capable of flight for a short time. Each little speck of glitter is like a tiny neon-colored insect about the size of a grain of salt. Beastly stuff."

Lavender continued Pansy? argument. "And it was useless to wait a minute for the stupid little glitter pieces to land on the ground because Harry just kept producing more. You tried to have a civilized chat with him, and you were instantly assaulted by clouds of glitter."

"So, Potter, tell us," Pansy said, moving next to Harry, "do these sorts of spells or charms have an affinity for you in particular, or do they gravitate toward annoying people in general?"

Blaise moved up to where Pansy stood and put a hand on her shoulder. "We told you and all the other girls that the glitter was just a hallucination caused by the spell Potter was under. None of the boys ever saw these little pieces of glitter you were always talking about. You should have believed us."

"Oh, that reminds me." Pansy rounded on Blaise. "Speaking of things that girls find mysterious, would you mind explaining why you spent most of the trip on the Hogwarts Express this year trying to get into Potter's pants? You've always had a reputation for being exclusively straight. At least, until this year's Potter fiasco."

Blaise edged in closer to Harry… even closer… and they were nose-to-nose.

"It's over, isn't it?" Blaise asked. "Whatever spell was affecting you has stopped working. Anyone can tell."

Harry studied Blaise and finally convinced himself that no one except Seamus knew about Harry's Veela family background yet.

"The spell is broken," Blaise said to Pansy. "So what's different now? Potter's forced me to look at myself more honestly. What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing," Pansy said. "Actually, I think honesty is rather attractive. It suits you, Blaise."

Harry had never seen Pansy wear a genuine smile, and it was a shock now to see her smiling so broadly.

"I suppose it's a community service," Pansy said, turning her attention back to Harry. "Well done, Saint Potter, although now we'll have to find you a religious sect that's appropriate for your skills as a saint. Perhaps we can scare up some religious tradition from another part of the world—some Bacchanalian cult centering around immoderate forms of sexual yoga. I think that would be about your speed, Potter."

Blaise put his arms around Pansy's shoulders. "What Pansy means is that your contribution is unique."

"Harry, why don't you come back to Gryffindor Tower tonight?" Seamus asked.

"Soon, but not tonight. I just want to be alone for a while."

Harry kept his Herbology workbook discreetly rolled up, took his leave of everyone and headed toward the field that lay to the east of the castle. The high grass was lovely and still green, but wouldn't be for long. Winter would arrive all too soon, the bluebells would be gone, and the land would be stilled by snow.

* º * º *

Draco carried his package in a backpack as he flew back from Hogsmeade toward Hogwarts Castle. After he landed, he sped downstairs to the dungeons, toward the private Potions classroom he and Harry had been using. He went over the instructions the witch from Hogsmeade had given him:

"This is a roll of phyllo pastry dough, which is really many dozens of thin, rectangular sheets of dough stacked on top of one another. Don't freeze it; just refrigerate it before using it. Use whatever cooling charm you're comfortable with."

In his haste, Draco hurried into the private Potions classroom without looking around. He didn't notice that halfway down the corridor, there was a figure standing very still whose eyes were trained on the door of the Potions classroom. Draco didn't waste time wondering about how peculiar the witch's instructions were. He just picked a small, unused storage container and applied a cooling charm. With the phyllo dough safely refrigerated, Draco tried to dash out the door. Ron, who had been watching the door from the corridor, chose that moment to walk into the classroom, and his chest collided with Draco's with a thud.

"I have to find Harry," was the only thing Draco could think of saying, at first.

"And I was trying to find…" Ron swallowed hard, "… you." Then Draco detected the worried, guilty look plastered all over Ron's face. Yes, Ron did have some explaining to do.

"Well, what have we here?" Draco said, stepping in quite close to Ron and allowing himself to savor Ron's discomfort. "You've gotten back from our little jaunt to London, and you don't look the worse for the wear and tear of travel, I suppose. Am I expected to say that you clean up very nicely?"

Ron's face turned pink, and he turned the palms of his hands up in a helpless gesture. "Look, Draco"—Ron stopped short and let loose with a guttural yell of anguish—"Malfoy… I mean Malfoy."

"Ron, you can pull the plug on using surnames."

Ron's eyes snapped open as wide as they could when he heard Draco use his given name.

Draco started to snicker. "I mean, using surnames seems kind of weird… you know… under the circumstances."

Ron's face went yet a deeper shade of pink.

"What I really want to know," Draco continued, "is what you remembered when you were in London."

Ron did his best to produce a disarming smile. "At King's Cross Station when we were boarding the Hogwarts Express?"

Draco tipped his head forward until it was quite close to Ron's. "You know perfectly well what I'm talking about, smart-arse. I mean your memories from London when we went back in time four frigging hundred years. When Harry and I traveled to the past, we held the advantage over you and Granger. We were real time travelers, and we only had access to our memories from the present. You and Granger didn't know anything about our lives now, and I'll have to admit, it was a bit of fun for Harry and I to have an advantage like that over you and Granger for one day." A stray lock of Draco's hair brushed against Ron's forehead. "But now that we're back, the situation is reversed. You're the one with the advantage, Ron. I'm sure you remember the rules for that guest account the Eastern Shore spirits let you use. You were actually reliving a previous existence for a day, so you get to keep all your memories from your life in the sixteenth century."

"Only what I was thinking about during that one-day trip."

"And… Ron… as I recall from our one-day visit, you were generally thinking about _me_ and reminiscing about the previous summer when, apparently, we were fucking each other like there was no tomorrow. You know things from the sixteenth century that the other three of us don't."

"But Hermione was in the same situation as I was."

"Yes, I forgot," Draco said. "Granger gets to return with completely useless information about her Hogwarts years in the sixteenth century when she was collecting expensive shoes, clothes and jewelry—and learning how to stack champagne glasses on top of each other. On the other hand, the information about the two of us that _you_ remember is of a more private nature. You and I were carrying on with each other in bed, it seems, all through fifth year and most especially, the summer before fifth year."

Draco shrugged carelessly. "I don't want it to seem like I have to know every last detail. I'm sure you want some time to organize your thoughts about this unlikely torrid affair between the two of us in the sixteenth century." Draco did his best to appear calm and indifferent, even though he was dying to find out about the sexual logistics involved. "I'm just mildly curious"—Draco smiled pleasantly—"that's all."

"Our families were such good friends four hundred years ago," Ron said, his eyes on the floor. "It was as if we grew up with each other. No one ever thought twice about how often or how long I stayed at Malfoy Manor." Ron looked up, but still avoided Draco's eyes. "I remember everything… everything from that year, and that summer I spent living with you at Malfoy Manor. I remember it all so well because I was thinking about it a lot during the one day we spent in the past." Ron fixed his eyes on Draco and ventured a small, tentative smile. "It was fun"—Ron coughed, his face quite red—"and I'll tell you anything you want to know… but not just yet, OK? It's all really new information for me, and I need to let it percolate a little." Now Draco could see the pleading look in Ron's eyes. "Draco… I just don't want to fight anymore."

"I don't want to fight anymore either. And besides, I have to find Harry."

"Draco, before you see him, you should know that he got his Herbology workbook back. The one from first year that he thought he lost."

This was the very last statement Draco was expecting to hear, and it gave him a moment's pause. For the time being, Draco didn't even waste time wondering how Ron knew about any of this. The more important question was how the workbook could be back in Harry's possession.

"But how is that possible? My father took Harry's workbook away from me. He either threw it away or stashed it in some hiding place at Malfoy Manor."

"It was the association of goofy spirits," Ron said, "the ones that sent us four hundred years into the past. The Eastern Shore nut jobs or whoever. They sent that workbook to Harry as a gift, but since he hadn't returned to Hogwarts yet, they sent it care of me. I think Harry named me as an emergency contact."

Ron took a deep breath. Now or never, he thought.

"I read your letter, Draco. I was wrong about you and Harry, but I was only worried about Harry getting hurt. And there's something I told Harry when I first met him on the train at the beginning of first year, something I shouldn't have told him because I'd only heard it from my parents. My father had always told me Slytherin house had a bad reputation, and that Draco's father had been a Slytherin when he went to Hogwarts. My father told me I would do well to avoid Slytherins entirely. I know where the ill will came from. My father and your father were always at odds at the Ministry of Magic, and I think they've always disliked each other." Now came the most wrenching confession. Ron steeled himself for the angry response he would likely get from Draco. "And I just gave Harry my father's advice. Harry knew nothing about the magical world because he was raised by Muggles. I told him Slytherins were a bad lot, and he must have just taken my word for it."

"So, Harry was not well disposed toward me from the beginning, I suppose," Draco whispered, the pain showing in his eyes.

"I'm so sorry, Draco."

"Not to worry. Harry and I figured things out in the end. I should be going. As I told you before, I have to find Harry."

"Right. I've been trying to find Hermione myself ever since I got back to Hogwarts this morning." Ron spread his hands with a defeated gesture. "All I need to do is tell her how much she means to me, but I don't know if she'll believe me."

"When you were with me on our trip to the past, you couldn't shut up about her. I was the unwilling listening post for nonstop Granger worship. You had _me_ convinced at least. In any case, Ron, good luck with her."

Draco and Ron left the Potions classroom, going their separate ways. Draco headed directly for Harry's room, threw open the door and was greeted by the sight of Hermione Granger kneeling in front of a chest of drawers and holding Harry's neatly folded Invisibility Cloak in her hands.

"Malfoy," Hermione said with a start.

"Harry was supposed to be waiting here for me." Draco folded his arms in front of his chest. He didn't give Hermoine further information, but instead waited for her to speak.

"I borrowed Harry's Invisibility Cloak, and I left a note telling him I would return it very soon." Hermione realized at once how unscrupulous that sounded without some explanation of her purpose for using the Cloak. "I was trying to find out if Ron had returned to Hogwarts Castle, and I wanted to be… erm… discreet."

Draco's smile lit up the room. "Perfectly understandable, Granger. We saw each other last in that sixteenth-century mansion the Weasley family owned in London. We were in the library, I believe, and your boyfriend simply had to find out if my feelings were hurt because he'd taken up with you. Under normal circumstances, that would be the most improbable question anyone could expect from—"

"—from Weasley."

Some native savvy prevented Draco from uttering Ron's given name. Draco regarded the wand Hermione held in one hand and considered whether he was really exercising some native sense of self-preservation. He didn't fancy being on the business end of one of Hermione's culinary spells. Wrapped in spaghetti or caramel? Dipped in tapioca pudding? Encased in a French croissant? None of it seemed appealing.

"But in the sixteenth century," Draco went on smoothly, "these weren't normal circumstances. Weasley and I were an item during fifth year, as you found out just before you returned to Hogwarts. Believe me, Granger, I was as surprised as you were. I will say that Weasley's continual conversation about how he thinks you are the sun, moon and stars bored me almost to the point death."

"I heard everything Ron said when I was standing on the other side of the bookcase." Hermione looked down, but her smile was confident. "I know Ron cares for me." She opened one of the drawers in front of her and looked up and smiled brightly at Draco. "I'm not trying to get underfoot, Malfoy. I know you need to find Harry. I'm just putting his Invisibility Cloak back in the drawer I got it from." With the Cloak safely stowed, Hermione rose from where she'd been kneeling and moved toward the door.

Draco moved in front of her, reaching into a deep pocket of his robe and pulling out a small parchment scroll. "Your potion recipe for taming bushy hair."

Hermione paused a moment in thought. "You asked me to give you a copy of this when we were in sixteenth-century London"—she gave Draco a curious look—"and you kept it for me when you traveled back to the present time." Hermione took the parchment scroll Draco was offering her. "That was sporting of you. Thanks."

Once Hermione had left, Draco stretched out on the bed to wait for Harry. Draco looked over at the window and saw the blue midday sky. He closed his eyes, intending to rest for just a little bit.

The next sound Draco heard was the door opening. He opened his eyes and saw that the room had grown much darker. The sun had set, and only the last dying rays of reddish light were streaming in through the window.

Harry closed the door behind him and was already kneeling next to the bed. "Draco?"

Draco, still waking up, raised himself up on his elbow. "I got the last ingredient, the phyllo pastry dough, and I left it chilling in the Potions classroom." He stifled a yawn, and a tiny smile formed at the corners of his mouth. "Sorry. I was a little tired, with all this running back and forth between here and Hogsmeade."

Harry smiled back. "I know I was supposed to wait for you here. I didn't because my Veela attraction doesn't affect people anymore. I think it has something to do with you writing this." Harry lifted the first-year Herbology workbook he held in his hand.

"I already know Ron gave you your workbook," Draco said. "I met him on the way to your room. He told me the Eastern Shore spirits sent it to you, but you hadn't come back from the sixteenth century yet. So they sent it to you care of Ron."

"Draco… the most important thing… Ron isn't affected in the least by my Veela powers, and neither is anyone else—not anymore." Harry slid onto the bed while Draco sat up. "I remember the dream I had when we were on the bog, gathering plant samples." Harry pressed the Herbology workbook close to his chest. "In my dream, I needed this workbook more than anything else."

"I remember. You woke up crying."

"You know I've been getting advice from Fleur Delacour. That's why I asked you if you ever carved my name into a tree or wrote it on a wall. It didn't even have to"—Harry couldn't smother his grin—"have a heart drawn around it or anything. Fleur told me that if you'd written or carved my name on something before my sixteenth birthday, and I finally saw where you wrote my name, I would stop transmitting unwanted Veela attraction. She'd already told me that the same thing would happen if you had written me a letter before my sixteenth birthday, but the idea of you writing me a letter sounded so crazy that I didn't even mention it." Harry clutched his workbook tight. "Why didn't you tell me what you wrote in here?"

"Harry, I was only twelve years old. When my father read my letter and found out who I'd written it to, he told me to consider you a potential enemy and nothing else." Draco took Harry by both arms and raised Harry up until both of them were kneeling on the bed. "My father's opinion meant everything to me. I gave up and did what he told me. Then at the end of term last year, you and Kyle Urquhart had that rendezvous in the Quidditch locker room. That's when I changed my mind. Afterwards, I saw you at Hogwarts Lake, and I knew I had to talk to you, even if it meant going against my father."

"I was sitting by Hogwarts Lake, Draco, and you walked right up to me. I knew just by looking at you that everyone had told you about the whole thing in the locker room with Urquhart. And you smiled. You were smiling as though you really liked me. The rest of the world had always kept us on opposite sides, but when you smiled at me like that—for the first time ever—nothing else in the world mattered. It was the first time I didn't care what other people thought." Harry looked down, not wanting to meet Draco's eyes. He thought he knew the reason for Draco's change of heart last June, but he had to be sure. "I figured you started being nice to me for the first time because you thought the idea of the other guys catching me with Urquhart was funny or something."

"No, Harry." Draco lifted his hand and brushed Harry's cheek as he spoke. "I was panicking. I didn't want to lose you to someone else. I never told you this, but I was so jealous of Urquhart I couldn't see straight. I felt wretched because I wasn't free to act on my own like Urquhart did. He was his own boss, and I felt like a coward by comparison. When my father landed in Azkaban Prison right after that, I knew I had to start making my own decisions."

Draco held Harry's face in both hands. "Angel eyes," he said, as he did so often now. The color of Harry's eyes would always follow Draco, from the rolling hills and wooded valleys of Wiltshire to the narrow glens and mountainsides near Hogwarts.

Harry leaned in until his mouth was caressing Draco's ear. "You loved me from the start, in first year," Harry said.

"I was a lost cause as soon as I met you. Nothing like that had ever happened to me before." Draco took Harry's hands now. "You were my first love."

"But I didn't love you back."

"I didn't give you any reason to love me back… and I wish I had. I was obsessed with resentment and wounded pride, and I acted like nothing but an evil git with you." Draco moved his mouth next to Harry's ear. "But now I'm giving you a reason to love me back." Draco's mouth glided across to Harry's lips, and he gave Harry a slow, tender kiss. "We won't ever be parted again."

* º * º *

The following morning, Snape summoned Harry and Draco to their private Potions classroom in the dungeons. The various plant and flower ingredients were organized in storage cabinets, and the final ingredient, phyllo pastry dough, was refrigerating in the container Draco had charmed.

Snape held the parchment containing the potion recipe, and he was scowling as he read. "You are quite sure this is the potion recipe that your association of spirits led you to?"

"We're certain, Professor," Harry said. "When we arrived at Ron's townhouse in sixteenth-century London, the spirits had already sent Ron a letter and signed Draco's name to it. The letter contained the name of the potion and specific descriptions of the ingredients and techniques. Ron's library in London even had a research assistant who verified that this is exactly the potion recipe we're looking for."

"I ask because this recipe is devoid of any of the usual magical techniques used in this type of potion. And two of the ingredients are items I've never heard anyone mention as potion ingredients: eggs… and some kind of curd cheese. And the final instructions are to heat the contents in an oven rather than over a flame." Snape eyed the instructions with suspicion. "This looks more like someone's idea of joke than a potion recipe. And I would appreciate knowing the name of the potion in English. The title line of this recipe is in Greek. S-p-a… and I can't make out the rest of it."

Snape drew a deep breath. "In any case, you've assembled enough ingredients for three or four batches of the potion. This actually works out well since I intend to familiarize myself with the recipe by making an initial batch by myself. If all goes well, and the potion produces the desired results, I will demonstrate the procedure for you, and the three of us will make a second batch together. I've arranged for you to meet with the Headmaster in his office at 11 o'clock this morning. That should allow me sufficient time to produce the first batch of the potion. I'll join all of you in Professor Dumbledore's office shortly after 11 o'clock. Until then, I prefer to work alone."

* º * º *

Later that morning, Harry and Draco stood in front of the gargoyle in the Headmaster's Tower. Snape had given them the new password for getting past the gargoyle.

"Go on," Draco said, and Harry repeated the current password:

"Quiche lorraine."

The gargoyle moved aside, and Harry and Draco ascended the spiral staircase to Dumbledore's office. They saw the other two Gryffindors as soon as they walked into the room. Ron and Hermione were standing next to a sofa as Dumbledore now turned toward Harry and Draco and said, "Ron and Hermione arrived just before you. Harry and Draco"—Dumbledore spread his hands apart in a welcoming gesture—"please come in." The Headmaster ushered them toward two chairs in front of his desk while Ron and Hermione sat down on the sofa.

Dumbledore took his own seat in the high-backed chair behind his desk. "Draco, I'm glad you remembered to bring along the wooden board you've been using to communicate with our spirit friends from the Eastern Shore Network. Tell us, how did you first come across the device?"

Draco laid the wooden board on the Headmaster's desk. "Professor Trelawney gave each student in Divination class one of these boards. Then she told us to go to our dorm rooms and find a small object that was significant for us in some way and use a charm to attach it to the board. The object I attached is a small bas-relief sculpture of a Greek temple. It's a good luck piece my mother had given me. I always take it with me to Hogwarts, but no one ever knew you could use it for magical communication. One of my 18th-century ancestors acquired the little sculpture at an ancient temple in Lebanon."

"A magical artifact from the Middle East," Dumbledore said, "which would explain how you wound up connecting to a spirit network on the eastern shore of the Mediterranean. In any case, we may very well need to ask these spirits a few questions concerning the potion recipe Professor Snape is completing at the moment. I hope the spirits can manage to keep their information straight if they have to advise Professor Snape. They seem to be as prone to occasional oversights as anyone else. It came to my attention that the Eastern Shore spirits had arranged to send you four weeks into the past, and instead, you wound up in the sixteenth century." No one said a word, but Ron's face took on a pink tinge that suited his blue eyes and red hair very well.

Dumbledore looked around at the four students. "I wanted to tell you why I've asked the four of you here together." Now Dumbledore looked directly at Harry. "When I first obtained the evidence of your Veela family background, Harry, I told you that only the faculty had been informed, and they had promised not to repeat the information. I believe your three housemates from Gryffindor—Ron, Hermione and Seamus—are the only other students who know of your Veela heritage. It was your own choice to inform Ron and Hermione, was it not, Harry?"

"Yes, sir."

"And Seamus, who is not present, found out about your Veela lineage by accident. As I understand, he showed up quite unexpectedly in the hospital wing last Friday in order to visit you. That was when the rest of us here discovered that your Veela powers were dormant whenever Draco was present."

Dumbledore shifted his gaze toward the other three students. "Seamus has already agreed not to spread the news of Harry's Veela background, and I'd like the three of you—Draco, Ron and Hermione—to do the same. I think it's only fair to let Harry explain all of this to others at Hogwarts in a manner of his own choosing."

"I appreciate that, sir," Harry said, "but everything changed yesterday. We might not even need the potion at all. My Veela powers don't affect anyone anymore, even when Draco is very far away. Yesterday, he was in Hogsmeade, tracking down the last ingredient for the potion recipe. First, Ron went to my room to visit me. Then I had a long chat with Seamus in the corridor. After that, I was in the Middle Courtyard talking with most of the students from Gryffindor. Blaise and Pansy were even there. And none of the guys were affected by Veela attraction in the slightest. The girls couldn't even see the glitter stuff they were always talking about."

"And Draco was in Hogsmeade during all of this?" Dumbledore asked.

Harry nodded.

"He's right," Ron said. "Harry's Veela powers don't have the same effect as they did on the Hogwarts Express at the beginning of term." Ron lowered his voice toward the end of his sentence as his mind filled with cringeworthy visions of him and Harry in compromising positions on the Hogwarts Express. "Besides, when I got back to Gryffindor Tower yesterday evening, everyone told me exactly what Harry just told us. They said they were all talking to him in the courtyard, and everyone was behaving quite normally. It looks like the Veela problems are over."

"An interesting turn of events," Dumbledore said.

Those inside the Headmaster's office then heard a loud thud against the door. It was certainly not a knock on the door, but rather, it sounded as though someone gave the door a good sound kick.

Dumbledore rose from his desk and went to the door, which opened to reveal Snape holding a large casserole dish using heavy cloth pot holders. Snape swept past Dumbledore and deposited the casserole dish on a glass-top table next to the wall. He threw the cloth pot holders down next to the casserole dish. Everyone now noticed that a large knife had been plunged into the middle of whatever substance filled the dish, and the mouth-watering aroma filled the office.

"I have mentored this wildly inappropriate project to the point of despair," Snape began, "and what do I get for it? An outfit of lunatic spirits advising me on Potions." Snape pointed to the casserole dish with a grand gesture. "Look at this mess!" Everyone stood to get a better view of the flaky, golden-brown crust that covered the substance in question. "Magical potions are supposed to be liquid, at the very least, not some gooey, baked mess that looks for all the world like a luncheon dish. This is worthless."

Ron was in front of the casserole dish first. "This smells great, Professor Snape. Would you mind if we had a taste?"

"Albus," Snape said in a weary voice, "would you pass out plates and forks? We certainly have enough ingredients left to make a few more batches if we have to repeat this ridiculous exercise." Snape wheeled on Harry. "Meanwhile, Potter, would you prepare your communication board? I have a couple questions for your spirit friends."

Hermione was already eating her portion. "Oh, Professor Snape, this is simply delish. It has just the right amount of that tangy cheese… I can't remember the name. And I could swear I've eaten something exactly like this before. With my parents, I think, at a restaurant in London."

"Damn it!" Draco shouted, as he grabbed a white napkin and held it against one of his fingers. As everyone had turned to look at him, Draco said, "Sorry. It was my own fault. I wasn't watching and I cut my finger with the knife, but it's just a tiny little cut." After a few minutes, the bleeding stopped, and he threw the napkin on the glass-top table.

Once everyone had tried a piece of the mystery dish, Snape said, "All right, Potter, you may contact this Eastern Shore outfit and ask them what in blazes is going on."

The entire group gathered close around Harry as he wrote down his first sentence.

· · · · · · · · · I'd like to get in touch with the Eastern Shore Network. This is Harry.

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • Harry, how good to hear from you. Did you receive our package? We told you we'd send you a present that was of genuine use to you, and you seemed so desperate to find your Herbology workbook from your first year at Hogwarts. • • •

· · · · · · · · · That's what I wanted to ask about. Draco wrote me a letter on the inside cover of the workbook when we were in first year, but I never got to read it. When I finally read the letter yesterday, the effects of my Veela powers on the other students stopped. A girl who is part Veela has been giving me advice. She told me that the bond between a Veela and their mate would form as soon as the Veela turned sixteen, but only if the mate let the Veela know about their feelings before the Veela's sixteenth birthday. That never happened between Draco and me, but my Veela friend said that even if Draco had written a letter I had never seen, the same effect would take place as soon as I got to read the letter. Is that true?

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • Your Veela friend is exactly right, which is why we chose that workbook as your present. From the very first time you contacted us, we knew Mr. Malfoy was your mate, we knew everything that had happened to your Herbology workbook and we knew your Veela problems would be over when you found out about Mr. Malfoy's letter. • • •

Harry's mouth fell open, but he forced himself to continue his inquiry.

· · · · · · · · · How could you possibly know all of that?

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • Don't you remember that we asked you for a blood sample, a drop of your blood on the parchment, the very first time you contacted us? Without a blood sample, we don't have access to a great deal of personal information about wizards who communicate with us. All we can do is verify a wizard's identity by sending their molecular aura description to the international database in Geneva, Switzerland. With a blood sample, however, our spirit association has access to all personal information and images connected with the wizard's entire life. Since we had a blood sample, we could examine any moment in your life with images and sounds, much like the way non-magical people in your century use electronic devices to gather video and audio information, and we could replay the video from any camera angle. We reviewed the conversation you had with Miss Granger on the train at the end of your first year at Hogwarts, when you were trying to find your missing Herbology workbook. While you were preoccupied with Miss Granger, we were pointing our video camera out the window at Mr. Malfoy, who was on the train platform writing in your workbook. • • •

Draco stood right next to Harry, holding both of his shoulders.

"They knew everything," Harry said. "From the very beginning." Harry scribbled down more in his haste to make sense of an absurd situation.

· · · · · · · · · Then what about our Potions project? The name of the potion starts with the letters "S-p-a."

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • Oh, that. Sorry to say, but that was just busy work we gave you. We had to keep you occupied with something while we were looking for a real solution to your problems. The name of the recipe is Spanakopita, which means "spinach pie" in English, and it has no magical qualities whatsoever. But our wizard informants tell us it makes a smashing luncheon dish, especially with some good bread and a glass of Sauvignon Blanc. • • •

Harry looked at Draco and his eyes went wide. "These spirits are mad. They sent us on a wild goose chase for nothing? For absolutely nothing? !" Harry's face took on a more determined look as he continued to write.

· · · · · · · · · You sent us to swamps, forests and sixteenth-century London, and all the while you could have just asked Draco to tell me what he wrote in his letter.

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • Yes, we could have, but we doubt it would have done much good. Harry, we've long since become accustomed to your habit of ignoring inconvenient obstacles. The obstacle in this case is your stubborn manner of clinging to preconceptions until evidence to the contrary is placed in front of your nose. Our favorite visual image is you throwing a glass beaker full of pond slime at Mr. Malfoy, missing him by inches. That was on the first day of your project with Mr. Malfoy. We came to the reasonable conclusion that you were not kindly disposed toward Mr. Malfoy at first. Yes, Mr. Malfoy could have told you about his letter to you in the very beginning, but you would have never believed him. You had to find out for yourself. • • •

Draco gave Harry a little squeeze and said, "They're right, you know." Draco was smiling, and he let his nose brush against Harry's cheek. "You can be more stubborn than anyone I know."

Draco was looking into Harry's eyes, but Harry was still looking at the parchment, and when he saw the writing, he began to smile. "There's more writing now," Harry said.

Draco looked down at the parchment to see what Harry was talking about.

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • In any case, if we had asked Mr. Malfoy to tell you about his letter at the very beginning of your project, he would have never done it. He would have been too proud. • • •

The others were all gathered around Dumbledore's desk, reading along with Harry and Draco, but Ron was the first to speak. "You know, Harry, they have a point. Remember when you told me about the debate you had with the Sorting Hat during second year?"

The notion struck Dumbledore as amusing. "You had a debate with the Sorting Hat, Harry?"

"I was in your office waiting for you to arrive—for a disciplinary matter, sir. I put on the Sorting Hat because I wondered why it suggested that I would do well in Slytherin House. That's what it whispered in my ear at the beginning of first year. When I was in your office in second year, the Sorting Hat just kept trying to convince me that I should have been in Slytherin House."

The last of the writing appeared on the parchment.

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • Harry, we truly believe that your collaboration with Mr. Malfoy, although time consuming, was the best course of action. As evidence of how effective your collaboration was, please take note that the enemy who was trying to harm you during your stay in the hospital wing almost died himself. Since we have your blood sample, we not only have access to your own thoughts, but also to the thoughts of anyone with a connection to your mind, which includes this enemy of yours, Voldemort. It was six days ago, last Thursday evening just before midnight. Your enemy had been inflicting mental torture on you for almost a week, while you were asleep. But after you finally woke up—when you were talking with Mr. Malfoy—your enemy was seized by an almost fatal attack on both his body and mind, although he is presently recovering. The force that was draining him of energy, almost to the point of death, seemed to be coming from you and Mr. Malfoy. In our thousands of years of operation, our spirit association has run across dark wizards, such as this Voldemort, who have attempted experiments to split the human soul into pieces. As we told you before, there is a solid consensus throughout our association that experiments in which two wizards merge their souls into one, such as your experiment with Mr. Malfoy, produce more powerful results. And, Harry, since your Veela problems seem to be solved, we will end our mentoring relationship with you and Mr. Malfoy by wishing you both the best of luck. Cheers. • • •

All writing disappeared from the parchment, and Draco wrapped Harry in his arms and whispered in his ear, "Two bodies, two minds, one soul."

Dumbledore pointed to the half-eaten casserole dish of Spanakopita. "Severus, since we won't be needing that for any magical purposes…"

"I will bring it to the house-elves in the kitchen," Snape said, "and see what use they can make of it."

"Do you think you could give the recipe to the house-elves?" Ron asked. "Maybe they could use it for dinner every once in a while."

After giving Ron an icy glare, Snape took the casserole dish and barreled out the door, his black robes billowing behind him.

Dumbledore picked up Draco's wooden communication board. "Draco, I'm afraid I must ask you to donate this magical artifact to the Ministry of Magic. These spirits, despite their good intentions, can be unpredictable, and I would rest easier if I knew this device was in safe hands."

"Of course, sir," Draco said. "I have no objection at all."

The Headmaster looked around at the four students in his office. "Do any of you have questions you'd like to ask?"

Just when it seemed that no one had any questions, Hermione timidly raised her hand. "Erm… my only question is about our little visit to sixteenth-century London. Ron and I actually know a good deal about our previous lives in the sixteenth century, although Harry and Malfoy don't."

"What a coincidence," Draco said. "I brought up that very same point with"—he smiled and looked over at Ron—"with Weasley."

Dumbledore noted the deep red blush that stole over Ron's face.

"Well, it doesn't matter all that much," Hermione said, seeming to change her mind. She smiled and tossed her hand in the air. "Forget I mentioned it."

"In that case," Dumbledore said, "I'll send you all off to your afternoon classes, and, Harry, feel free to move back into Gryffindor Tower anytime you care to."

Harry couldn't hide his delight. "Thanks very much, sir."

As all four students were making their way out the door, Dumbledore stopped Hermione. "I'm just about to leave myself, Hermione, but could you stay behind in my office and do me the favor of organizing that pile of research concerning Veela?" He pointed to a side table that was heaped with books, parchment scrolls and drawings. "You're such an accomplished student, and so organized too."

"I'd be happy to, sir."

Harry, Draco and Ron had already headed out the door. Dumbledore leaned in closer to Hermione and said, "I'll be back in an hour to take Draco's communication device to the Ministry of Magic." He had an unmistakable twinkle in his eye. "Please feel free to have a debate with the Sorting Hat. After all, Harry did."

After Dumbledore left, Hermione did what she promised and organized the table of research material about Veela, sorting everything by title, author and date. Had Dumbledore dropped a hint that he knew how curious she was? Hermione looked over at the Sorting Hat. The Headmaster knew perfectly well that Hermione had nothing at all to ask the Sorting Hat; she was quite content to have been sorted into Gryffindor, thank you very much. Then she saw Draco's wooden communication board lying on Dumbledore's desk. In an hour, the Headmaster would take the communication device to the Ministry of Magic, and she would never have another chance to use it. This was an opportunity that would only knock once. The siren call of raw curiosity drew her, and it was too much to resist. She sat in front of the desk and began writing on the piece of parchment that was still lying on the communication board.

· · · · · · · · · This is Hermione Granger, and I'd like to contact the Eastern Shore Network.

The reply came back at once.

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • Miss Granger, so happy to hear from you again. How can we be of assistance? • • •

· · · · · · · · · I wanted to inquire about the year that Ron Weasley and Draco Malfoy spent together, that is, during their lives in the sixteenth century. I believe Ron even spent the entire summer before fifth year at Malfoy Manor. Do you have any way of viewing their activities during that summer?

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • We wish we could accommodate you, Miss Granger, but as we explained before, we need a blood sample in order to have access to the personal information and images connected to a particular wizard, and we only have such a blood sample for Harry. • • •

A blood sample. Where the devil was Hermione going to get a blood sample for Draco or Ron? A sly smile crossed her faced as she realized that Draco had cut himself with the serving knife when he was getting a piece of Spanakopita—and there on the glass-top table sat the napkin he'd used to stop the blood. Hermione wrote down her new reply.

· · · · · · · · · I have a few drops of Malfoy's blood on a napkin. Will that do?

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • That will do fine. Simply press the part of the napkin with the blood against the piece of parchment you're writing on. • • •

Hermione followed these instructions and was rewarded with a confirmation of success.

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • Perfect. Now if you'll give us a few moments to configure our video/audio devices, we'll be able to set up a dozen or so large viewing monitors. That way, we can simultaneously review any number of events during the summer in which Mr. Weasley stayed with Mr. Malfoy at Malfoy Manor. • • •

After a few nerve-wracking minutes of non-activity, the reply from Eastern Shore appeared on the parchment.

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • We are now viewing a wide range of activities during that summer, both during the day and at night. What is the nature of your inquiry, Miss Granger? • • •

· · · · · · · · · I have a question only because Ron and Malfoy both have a rather dominant personality.

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • We've noticed the very same thing ourselves. What is your question? • • •

· · · · · · · · · How were they able to manage when they were in bed with each other? The situation seems problematic, if you follow my train of thought. Which of the two was more dominant?

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • Give us a moment while we replay some of the video/audio documentation. • • •

After waiting several more excruciating minutes, Hermione read the reply from Eastern Shore.

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • We have the answer to your question about the sexual logistics involving Mr. Weasley and Mr. Malfoy. Neither one was more dominant. They switched positions back and forth; first one was the dominant partner, then the other. It was a never-ending circle of life, like the serpent chasing its tail. The spirits in our association regard this pattern of carnal knowledge as a metaphor for infinity. • • •

Hermione at least had the presence of mind for one last exchange with the Eastern Shore spirits.

· · · · · · · · · Thank you, I think.

· · · · · · · · · ESN Reply • • • You're quite welcome, Miss Granger. Good day and good luck. • • •

Hermione left Dumbledore's office that day with a renewed sense of confidence and optimism, although she was unsure whether she would ever understand the nature of men.

* º * º *

Hermione stood on a small hill a stone's throw from Hogwarts Castle, which afforded her a perfect vantage point for watching the groups and pairs of students milling about on the school grounds. Almost three months had passed and Christmas was approaching. The hill she stood on and the field that lay between her and Hogwarts were covered in a blanket of snow. Hermione reviewed the events of the past September, when Harry's inherited Veela powers were wreaking havoc on the school. She smiled when she remembered how Fleur Delacour often referred to Harry as "a little slice of chaos."

Hermione spotted Harry and Draco walking across the courtyard together. She considered Draco's tall, athletic form, his angular features and his take-charge attitude about absolutely everything, and she realized that she no longer found any of this as annoying as she had in the past. Perhaps because Hermione and Ron had become so devoted to each other, she had to admit noticing the occasional similarities between Ron and Draco. It was only natural to look at things in a new way, since Hermione and Ron had both learned more about themselves during their unexpected trip to the sixteenth century. Her hair was now beautifully tame, thanks to the potion Draco had kept as a souvenir and given to her. Although she was as studious as ever, Hermione came to realize there was nothing wrong with looking a little posh. And there was no doubt that Ron had discovered something new during his trip to the sixteenth century, namely, that there are many different ways to love.

Hermione looked back down toward the courtyard and fixed her gaze on Harry. She watched him move across the courtyard, and he was the same now as he had always been—lithe body, wavy ebony hair and a face that was almost too exquisitely beautiful to be real. As she watched the two of them, she understood what the spirits in the Eastern Shore Network had known from the beginning. Harry and Draco were destined for each other; their love was predetermined before time began. Finally satisfied that the world was as it should be, Hermione gave up her hilltop view and walked back down toward the castle.

Down in the courtyard, Harry and Draco were chatting with other students, and it was clear everyone had become accustomed to seeing them together. There was general agreement that no two people ever had a love more constant, and others were more willing to extend them sympathy because they thought of Harry and Draco as two who had gone through a long trouble before they finally found each other's love.

Elsewhere on the school grounds, boys were strolling with their girlfriends as the winter snow fell softly, the very same boys who had been so sorely afflicted by Harry's Veela powers a few months before. But every once in a while, it would happen that those same boys—Blaise, Terry, Ron, Seamus and all the rest—found their thoughts wandering back to the events of September. Maybe the moon was full or the stars were aligned in an unusual way. They saw Harry's green eyes flashing and watched him walk across the courtyard… and move a certain way. Those same boys smiled as they watched Harry, and they remembered a brief season when a little slice of chaos descended on Hogwarts School.

_Fin_


End file.
